


spare time

by aubadechild



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (mostly), Angst, Canon Compliant, Eventual Happy Ending, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Post-Time Skip, Relationship Study, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:35:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29643105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aubadechild/pseuds/aubadechild
Summary: War is most certainly not the time for Felix to be ruminating on the fact that Sylvain only seeks him out when he's lonely. Neither is it the time for Sylvain to be wondering why Felix never seeks him out at all. Perhaps some friendships just aren’t built to last ‘til death do them part.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

Truth be told, Sylvain has been anticipating the coming storm. He’s charted its course across each sidelong glare, each furrow of the brow, each curl of the lip. If questioned, well—it’s all too easy to insist that he was unaware of his own misbehavior, because ignorance is always a better excuse. But in reality, he’s always known they’d end up here sooner or later.

He just hadn’t been counting on the knife.

They had exchanged words, at first: gentle pleasantries, to pretend that things between them were still pleasant. Then the knife had come out to play, and from that point on, it’s been doing the talking. Sylvain knows the young lady well enough to be fairly certain that she doesn’t intend to use it. This is just theatrics; a physical stand-in for the hurt he’s caused her, mirrored back in his direction.

He has his hands up, but it isn’t surrender. This is acting, too. Most of him is somewhere else, watching the scene from a distance with all the morbid curiosity of a spectator at a tragic play. She holds the weapon like _don’t make me do this; I can’t follow through_. Like the fact that she feels obligated to hold it at all is disappointing, but nothing more threatening than that.

“Is this about the girl from the bar?” Sylvain asks. “Because, if so, I promise she’s just a friend.” He could never quite fathom what makes him go to such lengths to soothe scorned lovers when it isn’t like he wants forgiveness. What he wants is the opposite—whatever that is.

His soon-to-be ex-girlfriend reddens. The dagger wobbles. “What girl?” she asks. “Have you been… ?”

“Never mind.” Sylvain cringes internally. He’s typically better at keeping his stories straight. “But if that’s not it, then… is it because I missed our date last night? Or am I completely off? Hey, if you’re gonna pick a fight, at least tell me what we’re arguing about.”

“We didn’t have a date last night.”

Sylvain opens his mouth, then closes it. The spectator inside him finds endless amusement in his predicament. It hungers for consequence, for righteous judgment to be passed upon his misdeeds.

The part of him living through those consequences is… less amused.

“We didn’t...? Oh, man. If it wasn’t you, then I guess I owe that cute mercenary an apology for standing her up,” he says, dipping his head in mock embarrassment.

His tongue is excessively vicious today. What comes out of his mouth isn’t even necessarily the truth. But he says it regardless, because, in some twisted way, he wants to punish this woman.

 _For what?_ wonders a voice in his head. _For seeing you the way you present yourself? Is that a crime worth punishing? Is it a crime at all?_

He shoves the thought aside.

In her frustration, the young woman hurls the dagger at the ground near Sylvain’s feet. It buries itself in a patch of dirt guarded by a tangle of thorny rose bushes. Her lips tremble, as though she’s desperate not to cry. Sylvain has never seen her on the verge of tears, and the sight unsettles him. As ladies go, she had seemed like one of the more easygoing ones. Somewhere along the way he had duped himself into believing that she might even be promising, with the way she sometimes glimpsed what lay beneath his suave veneer.

But what does it matter? In the end, she’s just like the rest.

She isn’t even the _first_ to bring a knife to a breakup.

“It’s not about any of those things,” she tells him.

All the anger that had fueled her in the beginning of their conversation suddenly evaporates, leaving behind a resigned sort of sadness. She still isn’t crying, but her face twitches with the effort required to keep tears at bay. Shrinking under the dark shadows as the sun begins to sink, she looks so small. But she also looks so real, in a way she never has before.

Seeing her like that makes something ache in Sylvain’s chest. Part of him wishes—too late—that he had come here today seeking redemption, equipped with an apology.

But he hadn’t. And there would be no guarantee that an apology would fix anything. Even if it did, it would feel hollow, and the reconciliation would be a temporary one. It would only serve to prolong the inevitable fracture.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he says. He tries to make his pleading sound at least half-convincing. “What’s that look for? We’ve only been together for a few weeks. I didn’t think it was serious!”

Her face contorts in a confused sort of disgust. “Neither did I!” she sniffs. “Trust me, I didn’t think _this_ was going anywhere. But it doesn’t have to be serious for me to want to be treated with basic respect.”

Sylvain flinches, as though struck. Though their time together had been short, had he not been the embodiment of chivalry? Had he not surprised her with bouquets of flowers before her recent certification exam, showered her in gifts and affections, spent every moment that he could possibly spare in her company? What does it matter if he’s off courting other girls while she’s tied up in her studies? He has to keep his options open, after all—in case something like _this_ happens.

Clearly she knows him even less well than she thought, if she’s mistaken all _that_ for disrespect.

“If the relationship wasn’t going anywhere, then why do you care if I was seeing other people?” he says. “Besides, I wouldn’t be mad if you had done the same. No double standards here.”

The woman stares at him, as if her gaze alone is weapon enough to threaten him into sincerity. When she finds that it isn't, she shakes her head.

“When we met, I really thought you were different. But you’re not.” She pauses. Sylvain sees the cogs spinning in her mind. He braces for yet another blow. But she continues, “You’re just like everyone else. No—you’re worse. At least other men know what they want, even if they don’t want _love_. But you—I don’t even know who you are. I don’t even think _you_ know. But I hope you figure that out.”

She turns and walks away without looking back, leaving her dagger rooted in the dirt. Sylvain frowns at it. Its jewel-encrusted hilt glitters as it catches the last rays of sunlight. He considers reaching down and extracting it from the vines; perhaps he can add it to the collection of keepsakes he’s salvaged from all the failed romances that have come before. But as a knight serving on the front lines of the war, he finds himself presented with enough opportunities to acquire new scars _without_ plunging his arm into brambles. He sighs, combs his fingers through his scarlet hair.

 _You’re right. You don’t know the first thing about me. But at least you admit it,_ he thinks, bitterly. _As for what I want, well. That’s obvious. I want—_

Lost in thought, he almost misses the sound of a familiar voice calling his name from beyond the gate. His heart freezes.

 _Felix!_ his mind supplies. _It’s evening. What’s he doing here?_

Like a specter, Felix emerges from behind the stone wall separating the courtyard from the main path. His eyes flit around the grassy area before they narrow at Sylvain.

“Hey, Felix,” Sylvain greets him, rubbing at the back of his neck. He, too, glances around, ensuring that the other half of his previous conversation has made herself absent. “How long have you been lurking?”

“I wasn’t lurking,” Felix says, dismayed. “I was just passing by. I didn’t hear anything, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 _If you actually hadn’t, you wouldn’t be saying that,_ Sylvain thinks. But he keeps his suspicions to himself. He needs distraction; Felix can provide. In Felix’s company, he can postpone the inevitable onslaught of self-deprecating thoughts for a while. He tucks away his mounting melancholy and dons his best impression of a man immune to past regrets.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Sylvain exhales. “If you had, your eavesdropping efforts would have been wasted on a boring conversation about tactical maneuvers throughout history. And I know how much you _love_ tactics.”

He sidles up to Felix, hoping the grin he’s forcing appears more convincing than it feels. At the very least, it’s rooted in true emotion—he _is_ happy to see him. Even if, in return, Felix is about as thrilled to see _him_ as he ever is, which is to say: _not very._

Felix reacts to his approach by crossing his arms and frowning. He slides a half-step back, angling his body in the opposite direction, as if anticipating the unspeakable. From experience, Sylvain has gathered that “the unspeakable” might include many things. It might include him daring to sling an arm around Felix’s shoulders, or ruffling the dark locks of hair which sometimes fall across his face. Sylvain hasn’t a guess as to whether these subtle acts of retreat are intentional on Felix’s part, or whether he is simply unaware of how his body recoils whenever anyone comes within touching distance.

He knows better than to point it out.

“As if I have time to eavesdrop on your small talk,” Felix mutters. “No. I was on my way over to the training grounds, and I thought I heard your voice. Naturally, I came to see what you were up to.”

Sylvain laughs. “Naturally. Hey, it’s a nice surprise; I’ll give you that. I guess I usually just assume that you’re already at the training grounds. Which—by the way—you’re pretty far off course, don’t you think? I mean, this is about as far as you can get from the training grounds without leaving the monastery altogether. Did you come all this way to hang out with Dimitri? I saw him heading toward the Knights’ Hall earlier.”

That earns him a snarl, another half-step backward. “What kind of fool do you take me for? No, I was just—“ Felix falters, then recovers, kicking a pebble with his toe for emphasis. “It doesn’t matter. I thought I heard you, and I was right. My curiosity is satisfied. Goodbye.”

Felix pivots on his heels, preparing to perform his usual vanishing act. From battle to social interactions, he seems to abide by some unspoken law which forbids him from entering a situation without having prepared an exit strategy in advance. Sylvain tries to remind himself that, no matter how aloof he appears, their friendship remains solid. Still, he can only weather so much of Felix’s indifference before his thoughts turn sinister, start trying to persuade him otherwise.

“No, wait—“ Sylvain calls. Without thinking, he reaches for Felix’s arm.

His fingers don’t make it as far as Felix’s sleeve before he realizes the depth of his mistake. Felix spins back around to face him with unfettered rage. He says nothing; he doesn’t have to. The way he glares at Sylvain, as though he’d just made an attempt on his life, says enough.

Sylvain curls his hand into a fist, then lets it drop to his side. His relationships leave him with little energy to pursue anything else, so the moment they end, he has to do what he can to make up for lost time. He zips along from love affair to love affair, secretly taking pride in the speed at which he can turn even the coldest maidens swooning. In time, he might forgive himself for the loss of his recent fling. There will be others. There always are. But he can spare no mercy when it comes to his role in deepening the divide between himself and Felix.

_Am I gonna ruin this, too?_

_No._ Sylvain shakes his head. He can’t afford to think like that.

Felix eyes him, still disturbed by the attempt at casual touch. “If you’re looking for something to distract you from your failed romantic pursuits, look elsewhere,” he says flatly.

_So you were eavesdropping._

Sylvain smirks. “Very funny. What if I told you that all I wanted was to spend some quality time with my good friend?”

“Then I would tell you to pick up a sword and spar with me.”

“I was actually hoping we could chat.”

“I’m not in a chatting mood.”

“Oh, come on,” Sylvain pretends to whine. “I just got my heart blown to smithereens by a girl. Won’t you let me cry on your shoulder? You know. For old times’ sake?”

Felix considers this. “No.”

“Okay, then. We can spar _while_ we chat. It’s been a while since I tasted defeat at your hands. You can teach me which battle techniques work best for repressing hard emotions.”

“Whatever,” Felix agrees at last. The way he breathes the word makes it sound like it was a struggle to get himself to say it. “Fine. You can train with me. But don’t expect to come out on top.”

“Just you wait. I’ll make you eat those words,” Sylvain teases.

Felix arches an eyebrow and says, “I’d like to see you try.”

A little tremor shakes Sylvain’s heart, for no reason other than that it really has been a while. He misses the rush of exhilaration that overtakes him when he faces off against Felix. He misses the echo of their frantic footfalls ricocheting off the columns, the ghost of a smile on Felix’s face as he toys with him a bit before forcing him to yield. He misses watching Felix get riled up. And, selfishly, he also misses being the reason for that excitement.

If it takes a breakup to make that happen again, then he supposes he’s glad to be single.

* * *

Felix strides briskly down the pathway. Beside him, Sylvain yammers away about the alleged injustice of it all. As he had surmised, Sylvain has indeed added a new victim to his ever-growing list of broken hearts. But that isn’t _Felix’s_ fault, so why does Sylvain insist on accosting him with the gory details?

Besides, it isn’t like this is news. While Felix’s presence in the courtyard _had_ been a matter of unfortunate coincidence, he’d lied when he’d stated that he hadn’t overheard anything. Really, if one thinks about it, the blame falls on Sylvain for choosing to have such a sensitive discussion in a public venue. If the topic had required privacy, then they should have taken it back to their private quarters, where it wouldn’t have disturbed anyone. Or tempted anyone into eavesdropping.

And even if Felix _hadn’t_ chanced upon the lovers’ quarrel, Sylvain’s sudden desire to train with him is proof enough of a relationship turned sour. This is how it always goes: Sylvain proclaims his undying devotion to a woman, then changes his mind and winds up back at Felix’s side. He’ll trail behind him like a lost puppy until he finds his next target, usually for a few days at most, and then the cycle will begin anew.

These relationships are so short and shallow that anyone foolish enough to be heartbroken deserves whatever misery they receive. In Felix’s humble opinion, courtship is a frivolous pastime which requires one to expend an exorbitant amount of effort in order to receive nothing of value in return. He has no need of it, and he cannot wrap his mind around Sylvain’s motivations in continuing to play at affection when the truth is that the man feels nothing but a stark lack thereof. It’s downright embarrassing, and, what’s worse: he seems immune to any sort of lasting repercussions for his behavior. As a Crest-bearer, Sylvain enjoys a veritable plethora of eligible young women falling at his feet at any given time. It’s a mystery how he has not yet managed to find at least one among them with whom he can envision a future.

Part of Felix wishes that they could skip forward to the point in their lives where Sylvain is happily (or, at least, neutrally) paired off in an arranged marriage, leaving him no time to pester Felix with his sudden bouts of neediness.

But another part of him wishes that Sylvain might never fall in love.

Felix does not wish to entertain that part. He does not understand what it means, or why it exists. He wishes to swing his sword, hard and fast, until the tension leaves his body and he collapses onto the ground. And he wishes to do so in no one’s company but his own, far away from whatever gleams in Sylvain’s big, bright eyes.

Sylvain, of course, has other plans. Plans which, as usual, involve robbing Felix of his few sacred moments of solitude.

“I mean, can you believe she had the nerve to say that?” Sylvain complains. Throughout the monologue, Felix has done what he could to match grunts of approval or disapproval to the relevant points in the narrative. But when they pause outside the door to the training grounds, Felix finds that he’s caught listening for real, can no longer tune Sylvain out in good conscience.

“As if I hadn’t spent every waking moment going above and beyond to be the best partner I could be!” Sylvain continues. “I don’t know. I guess I shouldn’t take it too personally. It’s like she said: she doesn’t know the first thing about me, right?”

It is woefully apparent that Sylvain hasn’t been nearly as affected by the whole ordeal as he’s making himself out to be. He’s laying it on for sympathy, practically begging Felix to take his side—as if Felix cares one way or the other. Felix tries to recall how many uninterested _hms_ and _uh-huhs_ it’s taken them to get to this point in the conversation. Now that he’s paying attention, he wishes he remembered more. Then he could give proper advice, like a good friend might.

Instead, Felix finds himself saying, “All these years, and you haven’t learned a thing. I thought you might have grown out of this, but you’re as reckless as you've ever been.”

“Don’t you get it? Our lives could end at any second. As long as I’m alive, I might as well enjoy myself. Besides, I didn’t have much time to woo anyone while I was off fighting Cornelia’s goons,” Sylvain explains.

Felix gapes at him. “What makes you think you have time now? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of a war.”

“Oh, so just because there’s a war going on, I can’t have myself a little fun now and then?”

Exasperated, Felix rubs his palm against his temples to ward off an oncoming headache. “You're insatiable as ever. So be it. Since you insist on wasting time, don’t expect me to rush to your aid when you’re in trouble on the battlefield.”

With that, Felix shoves open the doors to the training grounds. Every day around sunset, the monastery’s occupants abandon their weapons and flock toward the dining hall, leaving Felix with the place to himself. It’s his favorite time of day, where he can be alone with nothing but his sword and his shadow. No feelings. No thoughts.

 _If only Sylvain wasn’t here as well._ Felix puts his hands on his hips, looking vaguely dismayed in the direction of the training equipment. He supposes he had agreed to Sylvain’s proposal that they train together—although, in his defense, it had been neatly wrapped up in a compliment to catch him off guard.

Unfortunately, there’s no going back on it now.

Felix takes up one of the training swords, letting its weight ground him. Though his muscles protest, he slashes the air a few times, feeling better already. In the meantime, Sylvain comes to lean against one of the columns lining the perimeter of the square, watching Felix with an open admiration that makes his skin prickle. The feeling unnerves him. He shuts it off.

“So that’s what I could do if I cleaned up my act and started taking my training more seriously, huh? I’m impressed,” Sylvain says, tacking on a low whistle for emphasis. “Pick up any fun new techniques recently?”

“Nothing the likes of you would appreciate.” Felix whirls the sword around, casually executing one of the fun new techniques that he had, indeed, picked up recently.

Sylvain sniffs. “Hate to be the one to say it, but the whole ‘I’m better than you’ act has never really suited you.”

“It’s not an act. It’s the truth,” Felix insists. “I _am_ better than you. I can’t even count the number of times sheer negligence has almost gotten you killed. You never consider the consequences of your actions.”

“Actually, I consider them _very_ closely, thanks. It’s just that the rewards usually outweigh the risks by a long shot.”

Felix rolls his eyes. If Sylvain isn’t careful, the consequences of this conversation might include him ending up flat on the ground with a blade to his throat.

“It only seems that way because you take your allies for granted,” Felix reminds him. “Now, hurry up and arm yourself.”

“What? Not even a chance to warm up?” Sylvain protests. “Ugh. If you insist. So, what rules are we playing by? Is this an ‘anything goes’ kind of arrangement?”

“Do whatever lets you trick yourself into believing you have a chance.”

Sylvain narrows his eyes, but does nothing to challenge the insult. _If he has grievances to air,_ Felix thinks, _he can air them with a weapon in hand._

Unsurprisingly, Sylvain retrieves one of the training lances—all but cementing Felix’s victory in advance. It isn’t that Sylvain’s fighting style is predictable; even Felix has to begrudgingly admit that he can hold his own against the average opponent. But Felix is no average opponent, and he’s memorized Sylvain’s playbook to the point where he briefly entertains the idea of trying to beat him with his eyes closed, just to liven things up a little.

He won’t, of course. Best to not obliterate Sylvain’s ego entirely—although, in fairness, it could stand to be knocked down a notch or five.

With weapon in hand, Sylvain steps down to face Felix. He assumes a fighting stance, then casually spins the lance as if daring Felix to make the first move.

“Shall we?” Felix says, settling into position.

Sylvain nods. “Don’t hold back.”

Felix feels a grin tug at the corners of his lips, but he smothers it and replies, “I never do.”

* * *

Sylvain has to hand it to him: Felix is a formidable foe. He wouldn’t stand a chance against him in true combat. Panting with exertion, Sylvain dodges attack after relentless attack, losing ground each time he ducks to miss the edge of Felix’s blade. Felix pushes him backward, trying to corner him. It’s as though every time Sylvain attempts to fake him out and maneuver himself into a more advantageous position, Felix has already seen him coming and moved to block his advance. Would Sylvain be able to fight like this if he, too, bottles his emotions to the point where they only resurface in the midst of battle?

Probably not, but hey—he can dream.

In childhood, Felix’s greatest weakness had been his emotional instability. It had revealed itself in his fighting style, where he’d had as many ways of wielding a blade as he’d had feelings: he had been ruthless at the cost of defense when angry; apathetic and sloppy when sad. But now? Where are his weaknesses? Did he successfully eradicate any trace of the boy he had been before Glenn’s death?

The thought nearly distracts Sylvain into lunging headfirst toward Felix’s next attack. He realizes his mistake at the last second and side-steps, but Felix notices anyway, because of _course he notices._

“Is that really the best you can do?” Felix sighs, making no effort to mask his disappointment.

In response, Sylvain growls and thrusts the lance into empty space. Felix doesn’t even have the decency to flinch. As hard as Sylvain tries to maintain his focus, he can’t ignore the breakup repeating itself on loop in the back of his mind. Too many thoughts swim through his head, too many demands on his attention for him to remain present in the moment.

“Hey, give me some credit,” he returns, shifting back into a defensive position. “I’m holding up pretty well for a guy who just had his heart broken.”

“You’d do better if you learned how to avoid useless distractions.” Felix’s sword swishes by, narrowly avoiding his ear. “But I can’t deny that you’re skilled with that lance of yours.”

Sylvain shies away from another potentially fatal blow. “Thanks. I get that a lot. Usually from ladies, but hey, a compliment is a compliment.”

Sparks tumbles off into the shadows as Felix’s sword mistakes one of the nearby pillars for Sylvain’s chest. The horrifying screech of metal on stone makes Sylvain’s hair stand on end.

“Watch your tongue, or I might run you through and call it an accident,” Felix says evenly.

“Huh. I would say you should learn how to take a joke, but honestly it’s kind of cute how mad you get.”

Rage flashes in Felix’s eyes. He hesitates for a split second, but a second is all Sylvain needs to forge ahead. He lunges forward and tucks the lance under Felix’s foot, knocking him off-balance and sending him tumbling backwards onto the hard stone floor.

Felix hits the ground with a thud. His sword goes screaming across the tile, coming to rest just out of arm’s reach. Shock ripples through his features as he realizes that he is at Sylvain’s mercy.

Not above reveling in his own victory, Sylvain pokes him in the chest with the dull tip of the training lance.

“Well, look at that!” he announces. “I finally managed to take you down. Broken heart and all.”

Staring up at him, Felix’s eyes are wide. He jerks his head away as his cheeks began to redden, and Sylvain feels a pang of regret over taking advantage of his intolerance for teasing.

“Aw. Didn’t rough you up too much, did I?” Sylvain asks, kneeling down beside him. He extends his arm in an offer of assistance, but Felix puts up a hand to stop him from coming any closer.

“I’m fine,” he huffs, out of breath.

Felix pulls himself to his feet and brushes the dust from his clothes. Sylvain rises with him, arms hovering close enough to catch him in the event that he loses his balance again. Perturbed, Felix attempts to shrug him off, though Sylvain has not afforded him so much as an accidental touch.

“I don’t know; it kind of seems like your mind’s elsewhere,” Sylvain observes. “I know mine certainly is. Maybe we should call it a night.”

Felix folds his arms. His face is no longer the color of shame; only errant splotches remain to mark the passing of his embarrassment.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Maybe _you’re_ spent, but _my_ training just started.”

“Sure, but I’ve been wondering: does your training ever really _stop_?” Sylvain asks. “Come on, why don’t we have some fun for once? We can skip down to the tavern in town, have ourselves a few drinks…”

He trails off, discouraged by Felix’s withering expression. But he’s known Felix long enough to know that sometimes, if he pushes just the right buttons in just the right ways, he can convince him to change his mind.

“Here, I’ll even sweeten the pot,” he continues. “If you come out with me tonight, I solemnly swear that I will temporarily abstain from ogling the lovely ladies of Garreg Mach. Knight’s honor. Painful as it may be.” This declaration is punctuated by the thump of his fist against his chest, accompanied by a stern expression befitting a valiant knight.

Felix shakes his head. “‘Knight’s honor,’ huh... We both know that means nothing.”

Sylvain winks back. “Exactly. A dashing young knight such as myself would never make a promise that he couldn’t break. But that doesn’t mean I won’t try my best to keep this one.”

That earns him something that twitches like a grin. “How irritating. But all right, I accept your invitation.”

“That was… surprisingly easy,” Sylvain admits. “I was all prepared to bribe you into spending more time with me by offering to pay for dinner and everything. But hey, I’m not complaining. Let’s go!”

It’s all Sylvain can do to keep from clapping a hand against Felix’s shoulder in delight, but he manages to restrain himself, if only because he knows that the motion might negate what little progress he has made toward mending their friendship—if not fracture it completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves* hello! i have been working on this behemoth of a fic for ages now, and i'm finally in a place where i am able to start posting it! i will be trying to get the remaining chapters edited and posted in the next few days. i apologize for any tense inconsistencies or formatting issues; the technical difficulties i've had while working on this have been unreal, but i hope you're able to enjoy regardless! some of the chapters later down the line will have warnings and in those cases i will do my best to leave a chapter note saying what kinds of content they might contain! thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

In the fledgling Kingdom Army’s efforts to revitalize the town below Garreg Mach Monastery, the tavern had been one of the first locations slated for reconstruction. Its high priority had been justified by assurances that a central location for drinking and merriment would foster a necessary sense of community among the disjointed population of soldiers and mercenaries. There were those dissenters who had condemned its revival, citing the increase in frequency of incidents involving public indecency and general rambunctiousness that went hand-in-hand with such a venue, but those were fewer and further between than its supporters. When the war began in earnest, even naysayers came to admit that they were not immune to the vices housed within.

Sylvain, for one, has never been opposed to it. Sure, the food is no better than anything that can be found up at the monastery (in fact, if he’s being honest, it’s usually worse), but what the tavern lacks in culinary talent, it more than makes up for in atmosphere. Among the drunken shouts and the strange, often foul odors of mysterious origin, he feels perfectly at ease. Rarely is anyone sober enough to take note of his privilege, and he usually wears plain clothing anyway, devoid of any adornments that might mark him as nobility.

Felix evidently does not share his appreciation for stuffy taverns. As soon as they are inside, he elbows his way through the crowd toward an unoccupied booth in the farthest corner. He slides in so that he is pressed up against the wall, looking very much like he already regrets letting Sylvain talk him into this.

“What’s the matter?” Sylvain asks, sliding in across from him. “It’s like you didn’t even _enjoy_ fighting your way through that crowd of inebriated soldiers.”

“I already regret letting you talk me into this,” Felix huffs. He refuses to meet Sylvain’s eyes, instead turning his attention to the window. Merchants in the square outside sing some discordant shanty as they pack up their wares for the night, but the words are impossible to make out over the din of the tavern.

 _Is he really that uninterested?_ Sylvain wonders. _I mean, am I so boring that he’d rather stare into space than have a conversation?_

The thought spurs a sudden wave of self-consciousness, as if Felix’s feelings about the place are Sylvain’s responsibility. In a way, he supposes they are—after all, he’s all but dragged him down here on the promise of a fun night out, so it would be a shame if Felix spends the whole time feeling miserable. On the other hand, it’s difficult to imagine Felix enjoying _anything_ as much as the training regimen from which Sylvain has so cruelly extracted him. Then again, Felix would have never allowed himself to be torn away from his practice if he hadn’t wanted to be. Sylvain can’t feel too guilty, knowing that.

“You’ll feel better once you have something to drink,” Sylvain assures him. Or _thinks_ he’s assuring him. In truth, he’s unsure to what extent he’s trying to reassure Felix, and to what extent he’s trying to reassure himself. He surveys the bar area, where a tough-looking mercenary woman with a jagged scar down her arm sits, talking to the bartender. Felix follows his gaze—then rolls his eyes.

“I think I’ll stick to food, thanks,” Felix says through his teeth. “Alcohol is worthless; it slows me down. I need to be sharp tomorrow so that I can make up for my—for my loss today.”

Sylvain tears his attention away from the attractive mercenary, resisting the temptation to continue staring. Even if it had been half in jest, he figures that he should at least attempt to follow through on his promise to Felix. Knight’s honor, and all.

“Still beating yourself up about that?” he prods. “You’ve gotta learn to let those things go. It was just a friendly duel.”

“Clearly you don’t see what’s at stake, here. That might have been a ‘friendly duel,’ but distractions on the battlefield are a matter of life and death.”

Taken aback by his obsession with the incident, Sylvain dips his head down, trying to force Felix to meet his gaze. He can never resist the urge to search Felix’s face for remnants of his previous self whenever he gets so worked up over his perceived shortcomings.

“Hey, go easy on yourself,” Sylvain tells him. “Everyone gets distracted sometimes. It’s what makes us human.”

Felix moves his head to the side. Absently, he traces the wood grains patterning the surface of the table.

“Not me,” he replies. “I have no patience for distractions. Anything that doesn’t further my training only hinders it.”

 _Would it kill you to take yourself less seriously?_ Sylvain wonders. He’s inclined to think it would not. Then again, once upon a time even the slightest hint of adversity would have shattered the fragile shell holding Felix’s emotions intact. That thin mask of cynicism is merely a facade he’s built to cope with the pain of being such a sensitive child. Maybe he really _will_ die if he lightens up a little. Maybe that’s why he has never tried.

“Oh.” Sylvain pauses. “So then, are you calling me a hindrance?”

“What? I’m not calling you anything. I’m just saying—”

“Yeah, no, I heard you. ‘ _Anything that doesn’t further my training only hinders it’_ ,” Sylvain repeats, mocking Felix’s indifference. “But since you put your training on hold to come out with me tonight, doesn’t that make me an exception to your ‘no distractions’ rule?”

Felix groans. “What it makes you is _annoying_.”

“Heh. Sure, maybe I’m annoying. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re still smiling.”

There it is—hardly a sliver, but present all the same: an echo of Felix’s old self in the way he crosses his arms and bites his lip to smother a grin. Sometimes Sylvain wonders which of the Fraldarius boys truly died in the Tragedy: Glenn, or Felix. But the truth is that neither has disappeared completely, as the man sitting before him bears fragments of each, inextricably entwined.

Meanwhile, all that remains of Sylvain’s own brother is the faintest sensation of fresh, warm blood that sometimes returns to haunt his hands, and the distant memory of darkness closing in around him.

Sylvain pushes himself to his feet, startling Felix, who has successfully banished any glimmer of enjoyment from his face.

“Well, at any rate, I’m parched,” Sylvain tells him. “I’ll grab you some food while I’m up there. Tonight’s on me—I insist.” His eyes drift back to the ruggedly beautiful mercenary, but he can’t be _that_ weak. Can he?

* * *

With Sylvain off to order at the bar, Felix finally breathes a sigh of relief.

Something has been troubling him since earlier that afternoon, and it infuriates him that he hasn’t yet pinpointed its source. The loss of concentration he suffered during their duel still weighs on his mind, but the true origin of his discomfort is the as-of-yet determined force that caused him to lose it in the first place. He had hypothesized that it was linked to the resurgence of nightmares he’d been experiencing recently, but the low roar of his irritation seems to be tied to Sylvain’s presence; Felix recalls that the feeling had begun to gnaw at him soon after he had encountered Sylvain in the courtyard, while now, in his absence, it’s less intense.

He closes his eyes and promises himself that when he opens them again, he’ll stop thinking so hard. But to his dismay, all he finds when he opens them is that they have wandered over toward the bar, where Sylvain is still ordering, which is apparently shorthand for _sitting down and striking up a conversation with some tough-looking woman_. The din of the tavern is immense; it’s impossible to pick out what they might be saying above the roar of so many voices, all speaking all at once. And Felix cannot quite read his lips. He can only see that he’s smiling, laughing, boldly reaching out to put a hand on the woman’s shoulder—a gesture which, to Felix’s surprise, she doesn’t rebuff, but readily accepts, even leans into. Like they’re old friends.

_Maybe they are?_

Felix has his doubts.

A perverse fascination with Sylvain’s self-destructive tendencies compels him to keep watching. Every exchange seems to draw the two closer. Sylvain leans in, and the woman mirrors him, crinkling her nose in amusement at whatever asinine comment he’s tried to pass off as a witty remark. Felix doesn’t need to be within hearing distance to guess at the shape of their conversation. While he himself toiled for years to hone his swordsmanship skills, Sylvain’s equivalent skillset is the art of seduction, and the blade he has sharpened is none other than his silver tongue.

Felix curses himself for not eating more at lunchtime, because now he feels his stomach begin to churn—although it doesn’t feel quite like hunger. Or it feels like a different kind of hunger. An insatiable kind. Which is ridiculous. What hunger exists but that can be banished with a hearty meal? If asked to describe it, he might say that it’s something _akin_ to hunger, but that its source sits somewhere deeper in the stomach than the place where hunger lives. The hunger below the hunger.

_Could it be rage?_

That seems likely enough. He has reason for rage, considering it hasn't been more than a few hours since Sylvain emerged from the other side of a breakup just to complain to him about how trapped he felt by his desire to be desired, and yet here he is, breaking all of his promises again—not only to Felix, but to himself. And Felix doesn't need to be an oracle to see how this will play out.

It is maddening. How does Sylvain not drive himself insane? Frankly, it’s a mystery how anyone can tolerate him at all, let alone swoon over him.

No—it’s no mystery at all; the answer lies in his Crest. It’s foolish to believe that Sylvain’s potential lovers assess him on any criteria aside from his status as a Crest-bearer.

For a moment, Felix fears that he might be at risk of feeling pity for the man. After all, he knows what it’s like to bear the burden of expectation. He knows how it feels to have a thousand eyes staring at him from every direction, each pair trying to impress upon him its own ideas regarding what he should do, who he should be.

Then, as Felix looks on, the mercenary woman leans over to whisper something in Sylvain’s ear, and Sylvain responds with a laugh that rocks his entire body.

The threat of pity dissolves. Left behind is the rage, or the hunger, or the as-of-yet-unnamed knot residing deep in Felix’s gut. He clenches his fists, then stands up so suddenly that a nearby patron staggers backwards in surprise.

Which is all well and good. One less obstacle on his path to Sylvain. Felix brushes past a group of obnoxiously intoxicated soldiers who have decided to congregate in the middle of the tavern. He marches up to the bar, then stops.

Sylvain had been so immersed in his new companion that he hadn’t noticed Felix approaching. Though, to be fair, he’s also facing in the opposite direction. But even if he wasn’t, Felix is sure he wouldn’t have noticed. If one thing has remained constant throughout the years they’ve known each other, it is that Sylvain experiences tunnel vision for those unfortunate enough to earn his affection. Felix stands for a moment, watching the back of his head bob up and down with laughter. He thinks perhaps he should tap him on the shoulder, but something deep inside recoils at the prospect of touching him.

Felix hesitates, then hesitates some more, so that he has a moment to contemplate being furious at himself for hesitating.

In the meantime, the woman nudges Sylvain to inform him of Felix’s presence. When Sylvain whips around to face him, he starts grinning like he actually gives a damn. Felix, who has made a grave miscalculation regarding the distance between their bodies, finds himself blindsided by sudden claustrophobia.

“Hey!” Sylvain exclaims. “I was just about to come introduce you to my new acquaintance, here—“

“I’ll be heading back now,” Felix interrupts. “See you tomorrow.”

He turns toward the door, desperate for a breath of fresh air. But before he could make it anywhere, Sylvain, who seems determined to continue repeating past mistakes, reaches for his wrist for the second time that day. This time, however, he catches it, yanking Felix back with a violence that makes him giddy.

“Leaving so soon?” Sylvain asks. The pained look on his face is almost believable. “I was coming right back, I promise. The food’s just taking a while. Busy night, and all. Wait, this isn’t about what I said earlier, is it? Because if that’s the case—“

Felix tears his arm away, trying in vain to keep his cool. “It’s not about anything,” he lies. “I just remembered that I have better ways to spend my time than sitting alone and watching these fools drown their potential in cheap liquor. That’s all. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

He walks away quickly after that, unable to keep himself from rubbing at the bare spot on his wrist where Sylvain’s fingers had been. Outside, he takes a second to pause and exhale, drinking in the fresh night air. The merchants have left the square, and in their absence all the quiet rings loud in his ears. His heart thumps, pulsing adrenaline. His sword aches to be unsheathed. He finds himself daydreaming about enemies jumping out of the shadows, so that he might plunge his blade deep into their chests. At the same time, he is wary of this sudden bloodlust. It frightens him. He is not that boar king; he does not know what it means to wish for brutality where none is warranted. He does not wish to.

Felix resists the urge to cast a last glance back at the tavern, where he knows that Sylvain, so fixated on his newest infatuation, will have already forgotten about his outburst. He grits his teeth, smooths a hand over the hilt of his sword, and makes for home.

* * *

A thousand half-formed thoughts swarm Sylvain’s mind as he runs. Most of them revolve around Felix. The others are frantic attempts to calculate whether he had egregiously under- or overpaid the innkeeper when he had dumped the contents of his wallet onto the bar before dashing out the door. He curses when he realizes he had left before receiving the food or drink he’d ordered, thus rendering his generous donation to the alcoholic arts welcome but unnecessary. Well, he supposes he can appreciate the momentary shift in reputation from philanderer to philanthropist. One of the few perks he enjoys as heir to a dukedom is that he never _really_ has to worry about his financial situation. At least, not for the time being.

He tries to keep his attention trained on the minor irritation of wasted funds, so that it does not fixate on the thornier, more complex issue of Felix’s sudden departure. Thankfully, the streets are mostly empty, and he doubts that Felix has made it too far out of town. His suspicions are confirmed when he rounds a corner to find Felix on the path ahead.

“Hey!” Sylvain shouts, slowing to a brisk jog.

Felix’s hand instinctively goes to his weapon. He whips around, anticipating danger. To Sylvain’s dismay, his face retains the same guarded expression even once he’s realized that he is not, in fact, being ambushed. He hadn’t been expecting a warm smile, but is it a sin to want better than to be squinted at like he’s some sort of criminal?

Sylvain closes the last few feet between them, then doubles over with his hands on his knees, panting from exertion.

“What are you doing?” Felix asks. He makes no effort to hide his disgust, which prompts Sylvain to consider his answer carefully. What _is_ he doing?

“Apologizing,” he blurts out between labored breaths. “I’m sorry. I really am; it’s just that—”

“Save your breath. I’ve heard enough. If your interest in spending time with me ends the moment you find a more appealing alternative, then why don’t we both stop pretending we owe each other anything.”

Sylvain knows him well enough to read the hurt beneath his anger. Convinced that no one can see his true emotions, it hasn’t occurred to Felix to make an effort to conceal them from people like Sylvain, who _can_. Which, Sylvain supposes, is a blessing. In all likelihood, their friendship would have disintegrated years ago if he hadn’t found the cracks in Felix’s defenses.

“It’s not about what I owe you or what you owe me,” Sylvain tells him. He straightens up, arching his back in a catlike stretch. “It’s about—ah, forget it. You’ll only disagree with me. Anyway, look. I _know_ I shouldn’t have chatted up that lady at the bar. Believe me, I feel awful about it.” He pauses. “But to be fair, she was _very_ attractive.”

“There you go again!” Felix hisses. “Do you ever stop? You try to guilt me for moving on with my life when you’re not around, but this is how you treat me when you’re here. I’m sick to death of you putting on that ridiculous facade.”

“Moving on? Since when am I ‘moving on’? You’re the one who’s barely around,” Sylvain snaps. “And, sure. Maybe I’m not who I pretend to be. But if no one bothers to look past my Crest, why should I bother being genuine?”

“Idiot,” Felix replies. “Listen to yourself. I’ve seen the way you act around the women you claim to love. No one’s ever going to look past your Crest if you keep fooling around and pretending to be someone you’re not.” He pauses to parse some internal conflict, letting his eyes dart back and forth. Then, with a deep breath, he continues, “You deserve better than that. There. Satisfied? Good. Now leave me alone.”

He turns back to face the monastery and begins to slowly make his way up the brush-lined path. Out of defiance, Sylvain waits a moment before following after him. Nothing Felix said was false. If it had been, he could have rolled his eyes and shrugged it off. Instead, Felix’s insights gave voice to a pattern that has been knocking around in Sylvain’s subconscious for ages. He needs more time to let it sink in, but a nagging voice in his mind wants to kickstart the process.

 _How is it that he sees you better than you see yourself?_ it wants to know.

He ignores it.

But lately, it’s felt as though Sylvain himself has lost sight of who he is. The edges of his soul—if such a thing exists—have been compromised by the desires of those around him bleeding in through the borders, blurring the line which separates the person he is from the person others think he should be. His self-perception is a composite image of every relationship he has ever failed, every bond he has ever broken. And at this rate, the one he shares with Felix is destined to be among them.

No. He can’t accept that reality. If there is something, anything left in his power that he can do to salvage their friendship, then he will stop at nothing to do it. No more broken promises. No more regrets. At the very least, he owes Felix that much. He’ll put an end to his impulsivity, bury his false selves and live with authenticity. And he’ll stop taking his friends for granted.

If he can keep only a single promise throughout the course of his entire lifetime, he prays it will be this one.


	3. Chapter 3

Sylvain admires the rows of red X’s now infesting the pages of his calendar. It’s hard to believe that almost an entire moon has passed since the end of his last relationship. If he’s being honest with himself, this is probably the longest consecutive amount of time he’s been single in, what, his whole life? And to drive home the achievement, the whole ordeal has only been mildly painful—not profoundly tortuous, like he’d been expecting.

Still, he can’t deny the loneliness. The daily demands of preparing for battle leave him with little time to dwell on it, but it still holds him in a headlock, quietly devouring him from the inside out on the rare occasion when he stops busying himself to the brink of exhaustion. He manages to go through the emotions well enough, but without someone else to help bear the burden of his solitude, everything feels hollow, numb.

Although, even _he_ has to admit that it hasn’t _all_ been doom and gloom. Whenever they spar, Ingrid lets him slip in the occasional cheesy one-liner. At one point, Annette had challenged him to a friendly contest of magical might, the results of which had served as a much-needed refresher course in the concept of humility. He’d even helped Dimitri escape the consequences of his own romantic endeavors, without asking the woman in question on a date himself. Interactions such as these momentarily filled the chasm in his heart where he thinks love ought to reside. They had made him feel whole. But the feeling of wholeness would only last until the end of the conversation, at which point the crushing dread would come flooding back in, drowning out any sense of hope that might have taken root.

Felix’s newfound compulsion to avoid him at all costs isn’t helping matters. They’ve exchanged no more than a few odd sentences since the night Sylvain coerced him into dinner. Despite the sizable body of evidence which seems to suggest that his attempts to mend the friendship are futile, Sylvain still holds out hope that someday Felix will not merely tolerate his company, but seek it out. That hope is so stubborn, it has to mean something. He just doesn’t know what.

At any rate, he’s made it this far without digging into it. Why start now?

Even if it doesn’t fix things, he has to do whatever is within his power to try and make it right. He needs to apologize—if Felix will ever again permit him to come within speaking distance. Suddenly turning up on Felix’s doorstep to repent for an error he made last moon is going to be awkward no matter what, but at least now he has hard proof of positive change, even if said proof comes in the form of a tattered calendar strewn with jagged red crosses.

...Yeah, maybe this is less convincing than he’d thought. There isn’t any harm in trying, though. Sylvain tells himself that he can pass it off as a sort of brag about his ability to progress as a person in spite of Felix’s incredulity. A sort of _I-told-you-so._

Of course, he won’t pull a stunt like that. He’s well aware of where to draw the line when asking for forgiveness. After all, he’s had plenty of practice in reassuring past lovers that he’ll never wrong them again. What makes him nervous about this time is how much is at stake—how much he actually _means_ the words he is prepared to say.

In other words, it’s sort of terrifying just how much he _needs_ Felix to believe him.

* * *

Felix has been out-of-sorts for nearly a whole moon, and the most frustrating thing about it is that he has no idea _why_. For all he knows, nothing is stopping him from continuing to excel in his craft, defy his own perceived limitations, and set new expectations for future growth. But instead he’s felt himself becoming even more sullen than usual, to the point where he’d had to endure an awkward conversation with the professor in which they had probed him about his self-induced isolation.

After that, Felix had beaten them in a duel. They haven’t brought it up since.

He has no time for distractions, can’t afford to be falling behind in the midst of all-out war. Yet the more he forces himself to focus on nothing but his training, the more apparent it becomes that his mind was firmly planted elsewhere. But where?

He’s at the training grounds again, lost in thought while doing his nightly weapons maintenance, when the idea comes to him. How long has it been since he’s spoken with Sylvain? He can’t remember, but it seems like it’s been a while. It’s a wonder that he hasn’t been able to advance his skills to the level of a saint in the absence of Sylvain’s intrusions. Or so he thinks at first, but then he wonders whether it might be the opposite: that Sylvain’s absence has been weighing on his mind more than he cares to admit.

Lost in thought, he doesn’t notice the lady knight lurking in the shadows of the training area until it’s too late to run.

“Hi. Felix, right?” she says, nearly costing him a finger when he’s startled into fumbling his sword.

“Do I know you?” he asks. Is his dismay palpable? He _hopes_ it is palpable.

To his chagrin, she tilts her head back and laughs. It is not an unpleasant sound. “We fought together when we took back Fhirdiad,” she replies. “Maybe you don’t remember? It was pretty chaotic, so I don’t blame you. It just makes my next question a little bit awkward, but, well. You’ll never know if you never ask! ...Is what I always say.”

There is a beat before Felix realizes she is awaiting a response. He puts down his sword, folds his arms, and says, “Go on.”

“All right. Here goes nothing,” she says. A nervous smile flashes across her face. She tucks a long strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I really admired your technique. And I was thinking, you know. You seem like an interesting guy, and all, so I was wondering if you’d maybe want to come have tea with me sometime?”

This has to be some sort of tasteless joke. Felix scrutinizes her for signs of deception. Women approach him for one of two reasons: because they want his advice on mastering a fighting technique, or because they are members of an enemy army storming him on the battlefield. They do not request his companionship or attempt to woo him.

“Did Sylvain put you up to this?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.

The girl blinks, then laughs again. “Of course not,” she says. Then she frowns. “No offense to him, but he’s not really my type.”

“Oh,” Felix says. The immense satisfaction he derives from hearing a woman express disdain for Sylvain’s antics is tempered by the fact that it seems she is, indeed, asking him out. “Well. I’m… I’m busy that day.”

Each time she laughs sounds more anxious than the last. “Funny, I didn’t really have a day in mind yet. I just thought, you know. If you had some time to spare—”

“I don’t,” Felix cuts her off. Guilt nips at the base of his skull, but he ignores it. “And even if I did, you should know that I’m not interested in pursuing a relationship with anyone. You would only be wasting your time. Goodbye.”

With that, he turns on his heels and makes a hasty retreat. Embarrassment blossoms in his cheeks, and he feels sick to the pit of his stomach. To think that someone like Sylvain would have viewed her offer as a golden opportunity instead of the mortifying experience it had truly been! If he were normal, perhaps he would share that rosy point of view. Perhaps he would have accepted the invitation, played at affection with her for a while, the way Sylvain does. But Felix enjoys his blissful ignorance regarding all things courtship and marriage too much to be anything but horrified when confronted with the reality that he will one day be required to settle down and marry.

Making matters worse, he’d lost access to his preferred method of stress release the moment she’d chosen the training grounds as the venue for this little confrontation. He cannot simply walk back inside, pick up his sword, and continue training as though nothing happened. He supposes he might find another way of letting off steam, but what would he do?

As Felix ponders his options, Sylvain emerges from behind the wall of the building, wearing a grin that lets his teeth peek through like bad omens.

“Not now,” Felix snaps before he can stop himself. Internally, he cringes. He hasn’t spoken to Sylvain in nearly a month, and this is how he greets him?

But Sylvain only chortles. “Wow, that’s cold, even by your standards. But I get it. You just got rejected, didn’t you? Or, wait, maybe you were the one doing the rejecting. I dunno; I didn’t catch the details.”

“Good. They’re none of your business,” Felix huffs. “Why did you come here?”

Sylvain folds his arms behind his head and sways from side to side. “Oh, you know. Just seeing what you’re up to. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“All right,” Felix says. “You’ve seen. Now go do something useful.”

He tilts his head up to see the moon blinking through the leaves above. Sylvain’s absence throughout the month has been no coincidence. No doubt he’s come here fresh off the heels of his latest failed romance, desperate for distraction. Has he no shame? A muscle twitches in Felix’s jaw. First the awkward encounter with the knight, now _this_? He’s going to have to turn in early tonight just to keep the universe from tossing him more than he can handle.

“Really?” Sylvain says. “ _That’s_ all you have to say? You didn’t even give me a chance to thank you for stepping in to help me when we rounded up that gang of thieves last week. If it wasn’t for you, I’d probably be laid out in the infirmary right now, letting some cute nurse fuss over me. Granted, that’s not the worst thing I can imagine, but…” Sylvain trails off.

“Get to the point,” Felix demands.

“Right. I came to tell you”—he tugs a ragged piece of paper from his pocket and holds it out for Felix to see—”that I tried taking your advice. Y’know, about how I should ‘quit fooling around’ and all that. Remember? So, yeah. Guess you could say I’ve been working on myself.”

The paper in question looks as though it has been hastily torn from an old calendar. Felix squints at the block of red X’s crossed over each day. “Am I supposed to know what this means?”

“See those marks? That’s how long it’s been since my last relationship,” Sylvain announces. “Hard to believe, right? It’s been so long, I can hardly recall what it’s like to feel the tenderness of a woman’s touch…”

Felix stops himself from wondering aloud how memorable “a woman’s touch” could have possibly been in the first place, if Sylvain can forget about it in a matter of weeks. He also stops himself from commenting on how pathetic it is that Sylvain has come to him in search of, what, praise? Approval? For something as basic as keeping his dignity intact! If a significant number of women believe that Sylvain’s behavior sets a high bar, Felix shudders to think what they usually put up with.

“As if that’s some kind of accomplishment,” he scoffs.

With a dramatic sigh, Sylvain falls back against the outer wall of the training arena. “Oh, it _is_ an accomplishment. You just don’t understand. The lack of a woman’s touch—do you have any clue what that does to a man? It’s enough to drive him to the edge of insanity...”

Felix’s nostrils flare. He recoils from mentions of intimacy at the best of times, but fresh off the heels of yet another unsolicited love confession, the very thought of it repulses him more than usual. “You’re right,” he says. “I don’t understand. And I have no desire to.”

“Bet you’d change your tune if you’d let that nice lady knight take you out for tea,” Sylvain tells him. “Can’t believe you passed up such a golden opportunity. Especially since you still haven’t been with a girl yet, have you?”

Felix can only guess at what Sylvain is trying to imply with the phrase “been with”, but the guess is enough to make his stomach turn over. Part of his insistence that Sylvain reform himself stems from the fact that he feels slightly nauseated every time they touch upon the subject of courtship, which more or less translates to him feeling slightly nauseated every time Sylvain opens his mouth.

“What a boring question,” Felix says, frowning.

“Maybe. But as long as it’s one you’re hell-bent on avoiding, it’s one I’m gonna keep asking. Actually, the fact that you’re being so mysterious about it must mean you have, right?”

“What? No. I haven’t.” A pause, then: “Not that it’s any of your business.”

Sylvain laughs. “Wait, wait. Don’t tell me you’ve never even kissed a girl?”

“We’re not having this conversation.”

Felix turns and begins to march toward the dorms, head spinning. He needs a quiet moment alone with his thoughts so that he can sort them into neat little boxes and bury them in the depths of his mind. But he shouldn’t have expected Sylvain to let him go so easily. The soft crunch of leather boots on the hard, dusty ground echoes down the walkway, and in the span of two paces Sylvain has caught up to trot along at his side.

“Come on, Felix,” Sylvain protests, using that faux pleading whine he puts on when he isn’t getting his way. “Stop running away. We’ve been friends for... how long? And sometimes I still feel like I barely know anything about you.”

“You know enough to know I’m not interested in chasing after women,” Felix snaps.

Sylvain taps a finger to his chin, thinking up his next invasive question. Then his eyes grow wide, and his mouth breaks into a triumphant grin.

“So then, are you telling me you’re interested in chasing after men?” he says.

And for some reason, that hits like a punch to the gut.

Felix falters, the toe of his boot dragging against the ground where he walks. It had been subtle enough that he could reasonably convince himself that Sylvain hadn’t seen it, but he also knows that no gesture is too small to escape his observation. The heir to the Gautier dukedom hasn’t charmed his way into so many hearts without becoming fluent in body language, after all.

“Not what I said,” Felix tells him evenly, picking up his pace so that the dark between them might conceal whatever else of his heart his body sees fit to betray. Sylvain matches him effortlessly, ever stubborn in his pursuit of idle gossip.

“Look, you know I’d never judge you. You can be honest with me—I mean that. If there’s ever anything you wanna tell me, I promise you I’ll keep it between us. Friend to friend. Man to man. Just the way you like—“

The words die abruptly as Felix clamps a hand over his mouth and slams him into the outer wall of the Officers’ Academy. There aren’t many others wandering the grounds of the monastery at this hour, but even if someone happens to see them, Felix’s rage far outweighs his ability to give a damn. That rage has been festering for weeks, sizzling down in the depths of his subconscious until reaching its boiling point. If this is the method through which it chooses to release itself, so be it.

“Shut. Up,” he hisses. Despite the white heat of anger burning in his throat, his voice is low and steady—evidence of the years he’s spent beating his emotions into subservience.

Sylvain quirks an eyebrow, more amused than irritated by Felix’s outburst. For a moment they stand there, neither willing to move. Then Felix tears his hand away, rubbing it against his coat in an effort to make his skin forget the warmth of Sylvain’s breath.

“Wow,” Sylvain murmurs. “That’s the most action I’ve gotten in, like, a month.” His voice matches Felix’s in volume, neither of them particularly keen to alert anyone sleeping in the nearby dorms.

“There’s more where that came from,” Felix snarls. Then, as it dawns on him just what Sylvain had meant by _action_ , his pulse begins to stutter, and his face grows warm. Thankfully, it’s dark enough that he can pretend Sylvain doesn’t see it. But darkness can’t save him from his own shame. Or from Sylvain’s response.

“Aw. How sweet,” Sylvain teases. “Here I was, thinking that you hated me or something, but now I know you were just too scared to confess your true feelings. I guess that explains why you always shoot down my offers to get you acquainted with the lovely ladies of Garreg Mach. And why you turned down that pretty knight.”

Felix has never had the patience for Sylvain’s sense of humor. At best, he finds that he can ignore his miserable jokes. But for whatever reason, this one makes him ill to his very core. One brief lapse in judgment away from throwing Sylvain against the wall again, his only saving grace is that he has absolutely no desire to close the space between their bodies.

“You’d better find someone to take pity on you soon, because you’re starting to get on my nerves,” Felix warns him.

“Oh? I thought you wanted me to quit messing around?”

“I changed my mind.”

“Too bad. I’m a changed man,” Sylvain says with a wink. “I’ve pledged myself to a life of solitude. That is, until I’m forced into an arranged marriage against my will.”

Felix crosses his arms. “The sooner that day comes, the better,” he replies.

* * *

Sylvain hadn’t been kidding when he’d said that Felix pushing him into the wall was the most action he’d gotten in over a month. Well, all right. He _had_ been kidding, as in, he had said so in jest. But the statement itself remains true enough. It _has_ been a while. Too long, evidently, if something as meaningless as the sensation of Felix’s palm against his lips can make his nerves go haywire, his tongue turn sharp and metallic.

If it had been a girl doing that? He can’t even let himself _imagine_. All he knows is that there’s something inherently seductive about pinning someone against a wall. Or in this case, he supposes, being pinned. So Sylvain’s heart isn’t hammering because of _Felix_. It’s… the act _itself_ which has ignited his blood, coupled with the pent-up frustration from not being touched in so long. Sure, he can’t ignore the excitement that had shivered through him when Felix had momentarily triumphed over his own aversion to touch. But, again, he can’t attribute that excitement to Felix as a _person_. The thrill of it is in the overarching concepts behind the gesture: the breaking of taboo, the sudden departure from everything Sylvain has taken for granted about the world—and about Felix.

Yeah. It’s just _conceptually_ seductive.

That must be it.

He deflates against the building behind him, grounding himself by pressing his palms to the cool brickwork. He needs to be anywhere else right now, far away from Felix—yet for all his earlier wishes to be left alone, Felix sure is keen on staying planted here now. He’s barely even stepped out of touching range. In fact, if Sylvain so desired, he would be able to reach out and smooth that stray strand of hair behind his ear. Or playfully punch him in the shoulder and tell him to snap out of it.

Or do neither of those things, and keep his thoughts centered on trying to make his body stop whatever it was doing. Because it’s doing something. And, for one of the first times in his life, he would rather it _not_ do that.

“It’s getting late,” Sylvain says. His voice comes out strained, hoarse. He clears his throat. “We should start heading back. The professor will have our hides if we sleep through tomorrow’s seminar.”

Felix looks at him like he’d grown a second head, but all he has to say is, “Agreed.”

They continue in the direction of the dorms. Though he’s acutely aware of the uneasy silence between them, Sylvain can come up with nothing with which to fill it. Anything he can think to say risks Felix lunging for his throat again, and he doesn’t need to give him any _more_ reasons to keep putting up hurdles to their already strained relationship.

 _Relationship_. Now there’s a word. Sylvain has been so focused on quieting his body’s impulses that he’d nearly forgotten what he’d said to Felix that had prompted Felix to bring said impulses to the surface in the first place. Though he keeps his suspicions private, Sylvain has often wondered about Felix’s romantic inclinations; or, rather, his apparent lack thereof. Felix keeps his emotions so close to his chest that it often appears as though he has none at all. It is likely that his vehement denial of interest in pursuing relationships of any kind is just another expression of that same emotional inhibition.

As an emotionally mature individual himself, Sylvain finds it painful to watch. He wants nothing more than to deepen their friendship, but Felix seems intent on keeping it static. The more Sylvain pushes, the more Felix pulls away. They can only exist at arm’s length. It hasn’t always been like this, but maybe now it always will be.

When they reach the second floor of the dormitory, they pause in the hall outside of their respective rooms. They can’t very well run off to bed without exchanging so much as a polite goodnight, but neither of them seems keen to be the first to say it. Which means that it will have to be Sylvain.

“So,” he starts, rocking back and forth from one foot to the other. “See you tomorrow?”

Felix winces. “Don’t say that like it’s a question. Of course I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Right. Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Another awkward silence follows. Sylvain continues to shift his weight from one foot to the other, because goddess forbid he refrain from fidgeting for longer than a second. Felix’s fingers twitch, mere inches away from his doorknob and the promise of rest. Whatever hangs in the air between them needs the kind of resolution Sylvain can’t even begin to envision, let alone create. He doesn’t know why, but a sinking feeling in his chest tells him that if he leaves these ends loose overnight, then the path to mending them might be closed forever.

He takes a deep breath, bracing himself for impact. But before he can say anything, Felix begins to speak.

“Sylvain,” he says. “I’m sick of seeing that sorry look on your face. If you have something to say, spit it out. If not, I’m going to bed.”

The tone of Felix’s voice clashes with his harsh words. Sylvain’s chest aches to hear him speak so softly, even if it’s only because the situation demands quiet.

“Should I… should I stop trying to be your friend?” Sylvain asks. He waits for a moment. When Felix says nothing, he continues, “Because if that’s really what you want, you should know that that’s not gonna happen. Like it or not, I’m gonna be a thorn in your side for the rest of our lives.”

“Ugh. You don’t think I know that? Why are you acting so… so...” Felix gestures at thin air, but comes up empty. Expectantly, he looks to Sylvain, who hadn’t thought that this moment of vulnerability would be so _terrifying_. He acknowledges the fear, then sets it aside to make room for honesty.

“I guess I just miss having you around,” Sylvain confesses.

Felix’s features contort in confusion. “You fool. What are you talking about? I’m right here.”

It then dawns on Sylvain that he had been so convinced that Felix wanted space after their awkward encounter in town, he hadn’t even asked him if that was the case. He had just assumed it was what Felix wanted. And, truth be told, he had been ashamed of himself, afraid of discovering that Felix had shut him out for good.

But Felix hasn’t.

That’s something.

“Huh,” Sylvain says, brightening. “Yeah. You sure are. But, hey, all this serious business is wearing me out. What do you say we get up bright and early tomorrow so I can show you what I’ve learned this past month? Call it a rematch. And this time, I promise I’ll play fair.”

Felix nods reluctantly. “Fine,” he sighs. “I’ll meet you at the training grounds tomorrow, then.”

They say their goodnights and part ways. When Sylvain finally collapses into bed, he feels a bit lighter somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> editing these first five-six chapters has me going, wow, this really was a lighthearted fic in the beginning, huh? (upside down smiley face) :^) i promise they actually do more than just bicker and spar the whole time. enjoy the melodrama while it lasts (who am i kidding, it's always melodrama, it's just a matter of how much angst there is to offset it). also do not ask me where on the timeline anything in this fic falls. i knew at one point... i do not anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

When Felix awakens to the sound of birds in the early hours of the morning, he cannot quite remember his dream. This is nothing unusual. He dreams infrequently, and those he can recall are often vague and malformed. But he knows that he dreamed last night because the feelings conjured by the dream have followed him into the world of the waking. They are warm, prickly, and vaguely uncomfortable, in the same way that the sauna is uncomfortable without being unpleasant.

The first thought that enters his consciousness is, _I wonder if Sylvain is awake yet._ Then his mind hints at a memory from the dream that had involved him shoving Sylvain against a wall. _Hadn’t that really happened?_ He’s certain it had, but he gathers through fragmented flashes that the dream had adapted its own alternate version of events. One where they had stayed there for far longer, and Felix hadn’t flinched away, and he had told Sylvain lies about his heart and other unspeakable things that the waking him recoils from in disgust.

A shiver runs down Felix’s spine. He sits up abruptly, pulse quickening. _No._ His fingertips feel numb as he runs them over his scalp, pushing back the pesky stray locks that wanted to tickle his forehead. The more he tries to shut out the scattered glimpses of the dream, the more insistent they become on revealing themselves, as though his exhausted brain is trying to goad him into finally putting it out of its—

 _No,_ he tells himself again, this time more firmly. _No more._

He takes a deep breath and looks around his bedroom. Nothing of his mind is real. All that is real is the cadence of his breath, the birdsong outside the window, the crisp sting of the morning chill. Those are his anchors. He stumbles to his feet, still haunted by residual emotion. It’s nothing a little exercise can’t banish, but his eagerness to start training is dampened by the knowledge that he had promised Sylvain a duel.

_Is there no escaping him?_

Half-asleep, Felix is still rubbing his eyes when he opens the door to find Sylvain already standing there, looking well-rested and prepared to seize the day.

_Apparently not._

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” Sylvain greets him, buzzing with far too much energy for someone who had gone to bed in the early hours of the morning. “Ready to taste defeat at the hands of your inferior?”

Felix stifles a yawn, and the urge to slam the door shut. “Your win last time was a fluke,” he replies. “If I were you, I wouldn’t test my luck.”

After a few more well-meaning jabs back and forth, they meander over toward the training grounds. On the way, Felix glances at the place where he had pinned Sylvain the night before—then immediately wishes he hadn’t. The dream rattles around in the back of his mind while Sylvain, none the wiser, walks close enough that their shoulders sometimes brush by accident. It’s hell. He tries to ignore it.

Inside, Felix makes a beeline for the swords. Early morning is the second-best time to train. Much like in the evening, the inconvenience of the hour is enough to ensure that Felix usually has the place to himself for a while. Today this also benefits Sylvain, as no one will be around to witness his crushing loss.

Felix readies himself for a fight, eager to get his blood pumping so that his body quits feeling half-stuck in a warm dream. A nerveless extension of his own blood and sinew, the weight of the training weapon reminds him how it feels to be complete.

“You make it look so easy,” Sylvain remarks. “Think I should try my luck with a sword this time?”

In reply, Felix raises his sword and stares down the edge of the blade. “Doesn’t matter,” he says. “I’ll win regardless.”

Sylvain shrugs, then goes to retrieve one of the lances.

They face each other the way they had last moon, only this time something’s different. Filtered sunlight flattens shadows, and the fog that set in overnight has not yet dissipated completely, warping the familiar setting into strange approximations of its usual self. Felix feels a dark thing slither through his veins. He feels his skin prickle under Sylvain’s eyes as they size him up, searching him for any of the tells he has long since learned to suppress. This time, he will not be caught off guard if Sylvain decides to fight with words rather than weapons. He steels himself with this, even as memories of his dream continue to ripple through his aching flesh.

Sylvain cocks his head. His smile is an invitation. “All this eye contact, and you haven’t even made the first move,” he tuts. “You can be such a tease sometimes.”

There’s a brief pause before something clicks in Felix’s head, and then he’s watching his body move. He watches himself charge Sylvain, watches his own limbs dance with the violent sort of grace he reserves for his most hated enemies. He cannot stop this from happening; glimpses of the dream plague him, unwanted, as though they form the impulse which moves his body forward. In a panic, Sylvain parries what he can, too dumbstruck to ask him to yield.

 _Schwing._ A flash of dark, inward fear across Sylvain’s features as the blade slips narrowly by. His eyes glaze over, turning toward the place in his mind he seldom visits in the presence of others. Lost inside his own mind, Felix’s body puppets itself manic, slashing with reckless abandon in the direction of the enemy.

_But there are no enemies here._

He can scream it in his skull as loud as he likes. It doesn’t make his body obey.

Losing is unacceptable. Every interaction is a fight for survival. Felix blinks, and suddenly he’s on top of Sylvain, clutching the hilt of his sword, spasming with the effort it takes to keep himself from plunging it into Sylvain’s chest.

Collapsed beneath him, Sylvain gazes up with a dizzy, half-elsewhere expression. Felix has him pinned to the ground, one knee on either side of his torso.

“How embarrassing for you. Next time, try harder,” Felix says through gritted teeth. Then he sheathes the weapon, embarrassed. No win is ever worth the price of his self-control. One second longer and, without a doubt, he would have—

“Felix?”

Sylvain’s voice is small and distant, as though it’s echoing up from the bottom of a deep, dark well. But it’s enough to stop Felix’s train of thought from careening off the precipice of self-loathing.

“What,” Felix snaps.

Light starts returning to Sylvain’s eyes, and he blinks, frowning, as though he doesn’t quite know where he is.

“It’s kind of hard to breathe with you crushing my ribcage,” he says.

Felix stands, silently admonishing himself for not doing so sooner. He does not move to offer assistance to Sylvain, who pushes himself upright with great effort, then rubs the back of his head.

“Ouch. That’s gonna leave a mark,” Sylvain tries to laugh.

Felix glowers. “Good. Serves you right. Your technique was sloppy from the start. Were you even _trying_ to counter?”

The look on Sylvain’s face shoots right through Felix’s heart, though he takes care to give no indication of the fact that it stings to see him so distraught.

“I just wasn’t expecting—“ Sylvain begins to protest.

“In battle, do you think the enemy cares what you’re expecting?” Felix fumes. “Be better, or face the consequences. I won’t come to your aid when—“

“What has gotten _into_ you!” Sylvain cuts him off, no longer trying to hide the pain that folds itself into the creases across his forehead. “First you don’t talk to me for a month. Now you’re acting like you want to kill me? If I did something wrong, then by all means, _tell me_.”

Anger simmers beneath Felix’s skin. The world around him shakes and shimmers like a heat mirage. He could offer up some petty half-truth to excuse his outburst, but anything he could fabricate would be an insufficient explanation for the size of his fury. Even the truth—what little he knows of it, anyway—cannot account for his behavior.

Internally, Felix blames it on the hunger-below-the-hunger: that gnawing, festering rage that seems to respond to Sylvain’s presence. But he cannot very well articulate that in a way that doesn’t leave him feeling nauseatingly vulnerable. Besides, he has not even begun to understand it himself. The feeling defies logic. It threatens everything he believes himself to be. To speak of it, even obliquely, might only lend it more power. So he forces the dream and all its lingering emotions from his mind, and decides which half-truth he’s going to tell.

* * *

_What’s going on?_ thinks Sylvain, still dazed from his fall. _You’ve never lashed out like this before, especially not over some harmless teasing. What gives?_

He bites his tongue. Knowing Felix, this isn’t about the teasing at all. Beyond Sylvain’s powers of perception, a series of escalating events had probably led up to Felix’s explosion. In fact, it’s selfish to even entertain the idea that Sylvain should bear the brunt of the blame here. He’d just happened to be unlucky enough to add the last straw.

Still awaiting Felix’s answer, he presses two fingers to the tender spot below his ribcage. He pictures a bruise beginning to blossom there—a reminder of his own inadequacy, which will haunt his skin for days to come. His sides remain warm with the residual heat from Felix’s thighs, but he doesn’t let himself think about that.

A moment passes in tense silence, before Felix reluctantly admits: “Last night, I... had a nightmare.” He scratches the back of his neck, still determined to look anywhere but at Sylvain. “I’ve… been having them again lately.”

Some of the bitterness inside Sylvain’s chest unravels to make room for empathy. He himself is no stranger to haunted dreams. He knows all too well how they can follow one into the waking world, trick the mind into believing that phantoms await around every corner. His own nightmares have hardly ceased since the day that Miklan—

But he will not think about that, either.

“Maybe next time you can, I don’t know— _communicate_ that? _Before_ you blow up?” he says softly. His ribs ache with more than the burning in his lungs. “You _do_ know you can tell me things like that, right? It might have sounded like I was joking around, but I really wasn’t kidding last night when I said you could tell me anything. I could help you, if you would just _talk_ to me again, like you used to before—”

When he realizes what he is about to say, he can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to—Felix can fill in the blank.

He waits for another outburst, but Felix’s expression betrays nothing of how he felt at the invocation of his brother’s death. And there lies the fundamental problem: the wedge that once created, and continues to widen, the gap between them. Convinced he’s slain his emotions, Felix has no tolerance for Sylvain suggesting that they are still alive and well. And Sylvain, for his part, is tired of being caught up in the crossfire of Felix’s war against himself.

“If you were going to say ‘before your brother died’, save your breath,” Felix says. His voice is low and ragged, but his face remains devoid of emotion. “We both died that day. The person you think I am is buried in the Fraldarius crypt. If you can’t see that, you’re even more of a fool than I thought.”

Sylvain swallows. Some part of him has always known that they would reach this point someday, but with that had come the knowledge that he would never be prepared for when they did. He can’t give up. Not now, after everything they’ve suffered through together. But if Felix continues to deny him a place in his life…

The sun has risen high enough to break up the morning mist, yet somehow Sylvain feels a storm of shadows closing in around him.

“Look, believe whatever you want,” Sylvain says. “It doesn’t change the fact that, whoever you are now, you still look like Felix. You still talk like him. Which means, like it or not, you’re still my friend.”

He winces as he pulls himself up onto his feet. As the shock peels away, the full extent of his injury begins to make itself apparent. Physically, he’ll have to contend with a light headache, along with some bruising here and there—but it’s nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure. Mentally, however…

“Well. The professor wanted me to help set up for today’s seminar, so I should get going. I guess I’ll see you there,” he says, answering a question Felix hadn’t asked.

When he hobbles out the door, he feels Felix’s dark gaze follow him out.


	5. Chapter 5

A lifetime has passed since he’d said it. What was it he’d told Sylvain that time he’d come to gripe about his failed relationship?

_You deserve better._

The memory ricochets off the interior of Felix’s skull as he sits in an empty room at the Officers’ Academy, waiting for the seminar to begin. It’s true: Sylvain _does_ deserve better. Better than Felix can give him. And he’s waiting for Sylvain to finally realize what Felix has known all along: that he isn’t worth the effort.

Felix thought that he had wanted this. He’d sincerely believed that his life would be better off if Sylvain stopped intruding on it. But that doesn’t seem to be the case. In the end, it had been for Sylvain’s sake—not his own—that he’d shut him out. It’s something he never expected to admit to himself, yet here he is, admitting it all the same.

Sylvain has never held Felix back. It’s the other way around: Felix’s very existence obstructs his growth, as his presence traps Sylvain in an endless quest for proof that he still contains some version of the person he no longer is, and will never be again. He’s trying to resurrect a phantom who doesn’t have the strength to materialize. Sylvain’s energy would be better spent on moving on with his life.

That is what he wants to believe. No, he _does_ believe it. Any yearning he has for Sylvain to come chasing after him like he usually does is rooted in an unforgivably selfish desire. Besides, why is he acting like some girl, fawning over Sylvain yet playing hard to get? The comparison fuels his temper, gives his thoughts something else to gnaw at.

He’s so wrapped up in them that he doesn’t notice Dimitri walk in until it’s too late.

“Felix!” Dimitri exclaims. “I didn’t expect anyone else to have arrived so early.”

It’s easy enough for Felix to pretend he hasn’t noticed him at all. He continues staring into space, hoping against hope that the animal will cease its jabbering and find somewhere else to loiter before instruction begins.

In the ensuing silence, Dimitri glances around the room. “I hope you’re well?” he ventures after a moment.

Of _course_ Felix couldn’t be so lucky as to ignore his way out of a conversation.

He exhales through his nostrils. If things come to a head, at least he’s brought his sword. Though, he hates to think of the books they might destroy in the process.

“Bold of you to ask,” he replies, “when you know full well that the reason you can speak at all is due to the generous contributions of Fraldarius blood spilled in your _honor_.”

He doesn’t have to turn around to picture the pained expression on Dimitri’s face. Dimitri sighs, as though burdened by the weight of the world on his shoulders. Which is laughable—the weight of the world rests on his _soldiers_. The senseless deaths of Felix’s brother and father had proven as much.

“Despite what you may believe, I am deeply sorry for your loss,” Dimitri tells him. “Would that I could turn back time so that we might have avoided—”

“Worthless,” Felix mutters. “You had your chance. There’s nothing you can do now except face the consequences of your arrogance.”

Felix rises, sending his chair screeching backward across the stone floor. What had possessed him to attend this seminar? The professor will neither notice nor care about his absence. He grabs his coat and keeps his eyes trained on the ground, determined not to catch sight of the beast as he makes his exit.

If he had known that it would cause him to run headfirst into Sylvain, however, he would have chanced a glimpse of the animal shaped like his childhood friend.

They collide in a spectacular flurry of parchment and limbs. Sylvain had been carrying a stack of books. The impact sends them clattering to the floor, flooding the hallway with the deafening sound of a thousand fluttering sheets of paper. It is as though the goddess is punishing Felix for daring to believe he might be free of the man for a while. Or perhaps she is punishing them both.

The two of them stand in the doorway, either too stunned or too stubborn to move. From behind, Dimitri voices his intent to help clean up. Neither Sylvain nor Felix react.

Dimitri tries again. “If you’ll just excuse me, Felix—”

“I won’t,” Felix snarls. “Step back, before my blade decides that vengeance for the dead isn’t so meaningless after all.”

Sylvain puts his hands on his hips. “Don’t listen to him, Your Highness. He woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Of course, that’s no excuse for threatening treason, but—”

“What is this talk of treason?” comes another voice, deeper than any that has spoken so far. Dedue appears behind Sylvain, his silhouette casting the room into darkness. “Do not throw around such terms in jest.”

Dimitri holds up a hand. “Do not let them trouble you, Dedue. They mean no harm.”

 _That’s not for you to decide!_ Felix thinks. He brushes past Sylvain, ducking away from Dedue and vanishing around the corner before he allows himself to collapse against a wall and breathe again.

After all that, he can’t even hold on to his anger. All he feels is guilt over leaving the rest of them to deal with a mess that he’d caused. But this isn’t the first time he’s wreaked havoc before running away. In all likelihood, it won’t be the last. And he couldn’t have stayed any longer, surrounded by people whom he hates, or who might now hate him.

It takes a moment before he realizes that he’s ended up in the same place where he pinned Sylvain the night before. The guilt he feels over the fallen books now sticks its tendrils into that as well. Why does he keep letting his rage overwhelm him to the point where it is the very thing propelling his body into motion? In retrospect, it’s easy to see that Sylvain hadn’t meant anything when he’d insinuated that Felix was interested in—well, _anyone._ Felix just loathes inaccurate assumptions.

He absently brushes a finger over the center of his palm. It’s as though he can feel the residual warmth of Sylvain’s skin humming beneath the surface. A flash of his dream from the previous night sends his pulse stammering, and he tears his hands apart, glares at them like they’ve betrayed him once again. He curls them into fists. That feels good. Pity the next person who crosses his line of sight, as he can’t guarantee that he won’t fly into a frenzy and pummel them into the cobblestones.

The doors to the training ground beckon him back inside with promises of relief and release. Perhaps he can exhaust this violence out of his body before it takes him over again. It certainly sounds better than sitting in a stuffy classroom, watching the professor demonstrate techniques that Felix has long since mastered. With another battle looming on the near horizon, he should spend every ounce of his spare time ensuring that he does not fall prey to this feeling that threatens to consume him. The price of distraction is high. What he would lose is irreplaceable.

Even if it is something that he’s already on the verge of losing.

* * *

Dimitri is a strange sight—one which Sylvain has still not quite gotten used to, in the aftermath of Gronder Field. The king stubbornly clings to his tattered fur coat and his mysterious eyepatch, which no longer suit him quite as well as they did in the depths of his despair. In fact, Sylvain would never dare voice his opinion, but the juxtaposition of his severe clothing against his fairly docile personality gives him an almost comical aura. Sylvain keeps an eye on him as they gather the fallen books, amused by how Dimitri’s serious expression clashes with the mundanity of the task at hand.

“Seemed like Felix was in a rush to get out of here,” Sylvain says, once the books have been neatly stacked atop one of the tables. “I thought he was gonna attend this seminar. Did he say anything about it?”

Dimitri exhales. “He spoke only of his loathing for me,” he replies. “Not that I can fault him for that.”

Behind Dimitri, Dedue looms in the background, straightening out the tables. His very presence is intimidating enough to make Sylvain think twice about anything he might wish to discuss, but Dedue seems content merely to listen now that the threat of Felix has passed.

“Whatever he said, don’t take it personally,” Sylvain advises Dimitri. “You know how he gets sometimes.”

“His words were blunt, but not without truth,” Dimitri says. “I understand the reasons behind his temper. Still, his anger today seemed to reach beyond me. I can only guess what might be troubling him.”

Sylvain casts a glance toward the doorway, as though some foolish part of him expects Felix to come waltzing back in like nothing happened. His vision remains somewhat askew—an irritating side effect from hitting his head earlier. If he stares too long at one spot, the world begins to tilt.

He turns his attention back to the king and says, somewhat bitterly: “Being ‘troubled’ is no excuse. Anyway, he’s no more troubled than the rest of us. If he wants help, he’s mature enough to ask for it.”

“Maybe so,” Dimitri says. “I would reach out to him myself, but it seems he has no desire to mend our relationship. I do not even know that it _can_ be mended, given what I’ve done…”

“In the meantime, don’t beat yourself up about it. His anger isn’t your fault,” Sylvain tells him.

Before he can contemplate the weight of his own words, the professor arrives, followed by a flock of attendees. In the commotion of greetings and other mindless chatter, Sylvain slips out before the professor can thank him for his help and ask him to stay. The courtyard outside is bright and alive with birdsong. In the full light of morning, it’s easy to believe that no time at all has passed since he first arrived at the academy five long years ago. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpses the piles of rubble left by the crumbling walls of the monastery, sees the broken shards of glass strewn about one of the walkways from a window that has yet to be repaired. Perhaps someday someone will piece it back together, but major renovations take priority so long as they are in the midst of war. No one has time to spare for little things.

He stares at the broken glass for a moment longer, while in the distance, the professor clears their throat and begins to speak. Then he lifts his chin, and walks toward the training grounds.

He can’t decide if he wants Felix to be there or not. He can’t decide what he will say to him if he is, or what he will do with the rest of his day if he isn’t. Maybe he’ll find his way down to the tavern and have a few drinks, alone.

The thought dissipates when he pushes open the doors to find Felix practicing inside. Sylvain extinguishes the smile that wants to tug at his lips. _Of course. Where else would he have gone?_

* * *

“Dimitri tells me you two had a little chat,” a voice calls out, startling Felix from an adrenaline-induced fugue.

 _Sylvain,_ he thinks bitterly. _Why won’t he leave me alone?_ He lets the silence speak for him as he glares down the edge of his blade, sizing up a training dummy.

“So? How’d it go?” Sylvain prods.

Lightning-fast, Felix relieves the dummy of its right arm. There’s a twisted sort of humor in the gore of its severed straw stump, accentuated by the lopsided grin someone has drawn on its oversized head.

“Why not ask _him_?” Felix returns. “That is, if you’re willing to lower yourself to the level of a beast. He may try to justify his thirst for blood with the claim that he’s haunted by a misplaced sense of duty to every corpse he’s ever left behind, but I see right through it.”

Sylvain snorts his way into a full-blown fit of laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Felix asks.

“You just don’t get it, do you?”

The training dummy wobbles as Felix drives his blade through the place where its sawdust heart would be, if it had one. The lingering rage from his encounter with Dimitri sings through his veins like a poison. He slides the sword out again with ease, letting the dummy deflate as it hemorrhages sand and sawdust.

“Choose your next words carefully,” he warns. “They might be your last.”

Sylvain shakes his head. “Easy, there. You’ve already tried to kill me once today, and this time, I’m not going down without taking you with me. Anyway, you’re just proving my point. You’re pretty quick to point fingers, but aren’t you and Dimitri the same? I mean, ever since Glenn died, you’ve spent every second trying to become him. Doesn’t that make you haunted too?”

Felix’s dominant hand has gone numb from wringing the hilt of his sword, a reasonable substitute for Sylvain’s neck. “Leave my sight before I lose my patience,” he says through clenched teeth.

“Listen,” Sylvain continues, unaffected. “All I’m saying is, Dimitri’s not the only one in thrall to the voices of the dead. Look at you. You’ve spent half your life trying to impress a ghost.”

“No. You’re wrong.” Even as his anger continues to flare, Felix sheaths his weapon and crosses his arms. There exists no emotion fierce enough to withstand being doused in cold apathy. “And I should run you through for daring to compare me with that animal. Unlike _it,_ I know the dead don’t concern themselves with what troubles the living. I neither know nor care what my brother thinks of me after he succumbed to his worthless ideals. I don’t intend to do the same. _I_ intend to survive.”

Sylvain takes a moment to stare at him in silence. His doubt reveals itself in the creases on his forehead, even though he doesn’t voice it. It surprises Felix just how much it pains him to argue with Sylvain, though he can’t recall a time before the majority of their interactions consisted of bickering. At least banter would bring with it the implicit understanding of a foundation built on mutual trust and appreciation. There are no such assurances here.

“Good luck with that,” Sylvain tells him, once he’s had his fill of staring. “I just can’t think of a reason you’d still be following Dimitri aside from loyalty—to him, the Kingdom, or your own House—but who knows? I’ve been wrong before.

“As you are now,” Felix replies coldly. “I’ve heard enough. If we’re done here…” He trails off.

“Well,” Sylvain sighs. “When you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

“ _If_ ,” Felix corrects him. “If I want to talk.”

And then there’s nothing left to say.

That night, when he sleeps, he is visited by the one nightmare he despises above all others.

* * *

_The dead stay dead,_ Felix insists. _They have no business with the living._ Yet their shadows dance across his ceiling each night. How can spectres carve out space where the light won’t go? He doesn’t know; they do it anyway. He hears rustling in the dark. A cacophony of angry bells and the clatter of footsteps in the hallway. Men shouting things that make no sense: _The King of Faerghus is dead!_ His father shouting back: _What news of my son? My son? Where is my son?_ And the silence that follows.

In the dark of his bedroom, Felix watches Glenn raise a finger to his lips, signaling a secret. He pretends to lock his own and throw away the key. They smile at each other. _Be brave,_ Glenn tells him, but his mouth doesn’t move in time with the words. Then the door bursts open, and light from the hall floods in, leaving Felix to blink away his confusion.

 _Wake up,_ his father commands. _Felix. Wake up. It’s your brother. Glenn. Glenn is_ —

Felix wakes up. In the silence, his pulse howls in his ears, drowning out the sound of the nightmare. He rubs his eyes and looks around the room, which is bathed in the faintest pale glow of imminent daylight.

Glenn is not here. His body lies entombed in the Frauldarius family crypt. His spirit, if mortals have such things, cannot reach Felix. If it could, it would have done so by now.

This is his reality. He bites down on his lip until he tastes blood. There is already a sore there from the countless times he has chewed away the skin, so it doesn’t take much. He grabs fistfuls of blanket and tugs until the stitches stretch. A scream lives inside his chest that he can never let loose, because to do so would mean he would never stop. He has tried many times to uncover what infects his dreams, but his mind has revealed nothing more than the fact that there is a wound in him that will not mend, which he already knows.

He squeezes his eyes shut. _I won’t let you haunt me,_ he says to himself. _You chose to throw yourself upon the blade of your selfish ideals, and I won’t let you haunt me._

When he opens them again, he is as much himself as he has been for the past nine years. And he owes the living an apology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> outline notes for this chapter: "At the seminar, Felix falls out with Dimitri. Sylvain, still hurting, calls him out on his behavior. Felix loses his shit, goes back to his dorm, and has a nightmare."


	6. Chapter 6

The next afternoon, Felix finds Sylvain lounging in the shade beneath a tree, nose-deep in a raunchy novel he must have snuck in from who-knows-where.

“Shameless as ever,” he observes.

Startled, Sylvain slams the book shut and sits up, scratching the back of his head in embarrassment. “Felix,” he says, somewhat awkwardly. “Did you come all this way just to tell me off?”

“No.” Felix can’t bring himself to look at Sylvain and his stupid book. His pride whispers at him to let the silence speak for itself, as he often does, but at this point he cannot guess what it might say. So he swallows, and forces himself to continue: “I… came to apologize.”

“Oh, all right. In that case, apology accepted,” Sylvain responds. In an instant he’s reclined against the tree trunk again, book propped open atop his knee.

Felix blinks, mind blanking as he tries to make sense of this reaction, or lack thereof. “My anger the last time we talked,” he says. “It was… excessive.”

A cloud passes overhead as Sylvain flips to the next page. By the expression on his face, it’s obvious that he’s not paying attention to the story. His eyes narrow in a comical approximation of intense focus, and he can’t persuade his lips not to quiver with a smile.

It’s almost enough to make Felix smile too.

_Almost._

“Sylvain,” he says. “Are you listening to me?”

“What? Were you saying something? Sorry. I stopped listening after the part where I said ‘apology accepted’. Thought that was the end of the conversation.”

Felix clenches his teeth. In preparing to apologize, he had anticipated a number of scenarios, but they had all revolved around Sylvain engaging with him in one way or another. This blasè attitude feels like torture. His chest aches, and the worst part is that he has only himself to blame for widening the chasm between them. But his heart rebels, too, at the thought of closing the gap. There are feelings he cannot admit even to himself, much less to another person. Much less to Sylvain.

The nightmare rattles in the back of his mind. If he recounts it to Sylvain, will that strip it of its power? Or will its grip on him only grow, having been spoken aloud?

Sylvain closes the book again, sets it aside. He tilts his chin up to study Felix, who feels suddenly vulnerable, as though his thoughts have manifested as words in the air around his head.

“Actually, I owe you an apology as well,” Sylvain says. “I was pretty harsh too, wasn’t I? It’s just that I hate seeing you and Dimitri at each other’s throats when you’re both—well. You know.”

The reference to the boar makes Felix’s lip curl up in disgust. But he pushes his discomfort aside, recentering himself on the reminder that this apology has nothing to do with the king.

“Since you’re not obviously doing nothing useful, I thought…” He trails off, frustrated by his own inability to ask what should be a simple question. He envies Sylvain’s devil-may-care attitude, if only because it makes him too impulsive to get stuck overthinking things. “I thought…”

_How humiliating._ The words catch in his throat; he cannot seem to overcome himself for long enough to spit them out. But, at times, Sylvain has an uncanny knack for seeing through him, and he is merciful enough to use it now.

“Hey, I just had a great idea,” Sylvain interjects. “Why don’t we go grab dinner at the tavern in town? I know, I know—it didn’t work out great the first time. But you saw it yourself: I’m a changed man. I even showed you evidence and everything.”

Felix briefly wonders if Sylvain possesses some otherworldly power like the professor’s—one that allows him to read what’s on his mind. But he chalks it up to the fact that they’ve spent too much time in each other’s presence throughout the years to not be able to occasionally guess at what the other’s thinking.

Relieved, Felix tells him, “If you insist. This time, _I’ll_ pay.”

* * *

On the way into town, Sylvain’s head is in the clouds. It has nothing to do with Felix; no, it’s something in the air that smells of fortune, of change. The monastery is abuzz with the news that they are to march to Claude’s assistance in Derdriu. Despite the dire circumstances, camaraderie among the troops has reached an all-time high. It’s infectious, that feeling—and the tavern is at the epicenter of it all. When they arrive, it’s packed to the brim with rambunctious soldiers. The darkened corners teem with couples, sneaking kisses where they think they won’t be caught.

As they snake through the crowds, Felix’s unease at the rowdy atmosphere is palpable. Sylvain recognizes that he would never come here of his own accord, and it gives him a secret thrill to know that, regardless of the tension that’s formed between them as of late, Felix is still willing to push himself out of his comfort zone for the sake of spending time with him. In the interest of conversation, he finds them a secluded table near the back of the house, although personally he would prefer to be closer to the center of the action.

“Seeing happy couples makes me jealous,” Sylvain sighs, once they’ve settled in. “But I don’t miss being in a relationship. Not really. I mean, they all feel hollow anyway. I guess what I miss is not being alone.” He pauses, takes a slow, thoughtful sip of ale. “Doesn’t it get to you, Felix? The loneliness?”

Felix purses his lips. “There’s a difference between being lonely and being alone. If you expect your loneliness to be cured by someone you just met, then of course you’ll be disappointed.”

“You know, you might have a point,” Sylvain agrees. “But the thing is, I’m going to have to settle for disappointment anyway. Though, I guess there are worse fates than being tied up in a loveless marriage.”

Felix’s eyes widen in disgust. “If you’re willing to lie down and accept that, then you’re even more of an idiot than I thought you were,” he says. “I would rather die than marry for the sake of securing the bloodline.”

Sylvain squints at him. Felix is right, of course. In a way, he certainly is a fool. Perhaps a more courageous man would have the strength to defy the destiny which had been thrust upon him from the moment his Crest had revealed itself. But the way he sees it, bearing a Crest narrows down his list of potential futures to approximately _one_. His course is set, and there’s no use dwelling on _what-if_ s.

He shrugs. ”Like I have a choice. Comes with the territory. Besides, you would rather die than marry, period,” he teases.

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Felix warns him. “I never said—“

“No, no, you’re right. I apologize. How foolish of me to forget where your true affections lie. You’re already wedded to the blade. Isn’t that right?”

Felix glowers at the shadows congealing around their ankles. “I’m tired of you belittling me for how I choose to spend my time.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” Sylvain asks.

“What else?”

Sylvain wants to consider his next words carefully, but the woozy buzz of ale ringing in his ears has other ideas. “Hey, you don’t know. I _could_ be flirting with you.”

“Drunk already?” Felix says flatly.

“Not even close,” Sylvain sniffs. “Just pointing out that there could be another explanation. Your assumptions aren’t always right, y’know.”

“This one is.”

Sylvain doesn’t think it wise to argue, so he fills his mouth with another gulp of ale. He wishes that Felix would drink with him, though he knows better than to challenge his strict _no alcohol_ rule. Surely one night of insobriety wouldn’t set his training back an absurd amount, in the scheme of things? But considering the disturbing pattern emerging within Sylvain’s thoughts tonight, a part of him is relieved that he only has to deal with the consequences of his _own_ mild tipsiness. Besides, the ale wouldn’t sit well with the butterflies in his stomach.

Which, of course, he doesn’t have.

Was the tavern this warm when they’d arrived, or has someone tossed another log on the fire? His body burns with lonely heat. Strangely, his mind keeps retrieving the memory of Felix’s thighs on either side of his chest. The details remain crisp; he can recall the strands of hair that had come loose from their tie, framing Felix’s ragged anger in sweat-frizzed strips of black, and the weight of Felix’s body pressing down on his own. It _has_ been far too long since he’s been with a girl, if this is what his mind has taken to supplying as fantasy. He needs new material. So why does he feel no compulsion to acquire any?

All he feels compelled to do is gaze vaguely in Felix’s direction. Felix, for his part, is doing a fine job of staring into space and not giving him the time of day, which for some reason delights Sylvain more than he cares to admit.

They sit in the comfortable pause, listening to the tavern’s occupants grow increasingly rowdy. After a while, Felix turns his attention to Sylvain once more, and Sylvain glances away, pretending he hasn’t been studying him.

“Your brother. Miklan,” Felix says. “Do you still dream about him?”

Caught off guard, Sylvain hesitates before replying, “Yeah. Not as much, anymore. But sometimes, yeah.” The memory is there, but if he chases it, he fears he might become it again. He can’t afford that.

His response seems to satisfy Felix, who nods, and says, “I see.”

The light temporarily departs Felix’s eyes as he folds inward, trapped in some tunnel where Sylvain can’t follow him. Then he returns with a jolt, and a horrified glance in Sylvain’s direction. Sylvain does not give any indication that he has seen. He knows that tunnel well enough to know it looks different for everyone, and that it needs to be traversed alone.

“While we’re on the subject, have you had any more of those nightmares?” Sylvain asks. It’s an innocent enough question, but the way Felix looks at him seems to imply that it’s one he shouldn’t have asked.

“What does it matter?” Felix replies.

“Oh, not much. Just, I’d rather be aware of when you do, so I can be ready in case you decide to go berserk again.” The words spill out of Sylvain’s mouth with a level of affection that alarms him. He narrows his eyes at the mug of ale, still half full. _Traitor,_ he thinks. Since when is his tolerance _this_ low?

Felix frowns. “So I lost my temper. I’ve already apologized for it. What more do you want from me?”

“You’ve been losing your temper more and more lately, haven’t you?” Sylvain observes. “It’s not like you to be so…” The word eludes him. He settles on: “...Obvious.”

Intoxicated to the point of clumsiness, a couple tumbles by on their way to the back courtyard, jostling the table so that Sylvain has to lurch forward to keep his ale from spilling. Felix reaches for it, too, only his reflexes are faster; by the time Sylvain gets to it, Felix has already caught and steadied it, and so, instead of catching the mug, Sylvain catches Felix’s hand.

He holds it for one horrifying beat too long, before his senses return and he yanks his fingers away, hiding his hand under the table. Felix does the same, mirroring Sylvain’s own horror. They both make a point of not looking at each other.

_Now I’ve gone and done it,_ Sylvain thinks. He doesn’t know exactly what _it_ is, and he’s agonizingly aware of the fact that his mind is stuck in a loop of catastrophizing thought. But he can do nothing to jostle it free.

After a moment, Felix clears his throat to say, “It’s late. We should go.”

And Sylvain can do nothing but nod and follow him out. As they walk, he finds himself curling and uncurling his fingers, trying to recall the warmth of Felix’s hand—and, at the same time, trying desperately not to.

* * *

The slight buzz of the alcohol has dissipated by the time they return to the monastery, leaving behind a vague sense of disappointment. Sylvain had been enjoying the sort of unhinged mood the ale had induced in him. Now, if he acts out of character, he has nowhere to shift the blame. And with each passing second he spends in Felix’s presence, the growing heat coiled in his stomach suggests that he may be driven to engage in reckless behavior. He cannot wrap his head around this impulse, except to reason that it is merely a continuation of the unfulfilled desires that had plagued him when Felix had shoved him into a wall the other night. He vows to himself that his body’s craving for touch endures until tomorrow night, he’ll find someone to help take the edge off.

That vow should be enough to prevent him from bending to the urge to enact payback on Felix by pinning him to the nearest hard surface. They’re so close to the dormitories that he can feel his muscles beginning to relax with the promise of safety in the air. And he might have made it, too—except that when they pass by the place where Felix had pinned him, he finds he can’t suppress a snicker.

Beside him, he hears Felix ask, “Something funny?”

“No,” Sylvain responds, unconvincingly. “Nothing.”

Above them, the moon peers out from behind passing clouds. It’s bright enough for Sylvain to catch the way Felix’s nostrils flare, unamused.

“Hm,” Felix says. “You’re acting strange.”

“How’s that?” Sylvain wonders.

“I don’t feel like explaining it. You just are.”

Sylvain stops walking. He tells himself it’s so that he can look up at the moon, and certainly that’s the truth—but it’s not all of it. Really, what he wants is for time to stop its forward motion for a night. For the first time in as long as he can remember, he’s actually _enjoying_ his time with Felix. What’s more—Felix seems to be enjoying their time together as well. But it’s fragile, this enjoyment—subject to dissolve at any moment. And once it’s over, there’s no guarantee that the stars will align like this again.

To his surprise, Felix has stopped a few feet ahead of him. He squints at Sylvain in confusion.

“See, when I say ‘strange’,” Felix says, “ _this_ is what I mean. I’ll never understand what goes on in that head of yours.”

Sylvain rolls up onto the tips of his toes and stretches his arms toward the heavens. “Well, you might if you asked.”

“I’m fine not knowing. Besides, knowing you, you’ll tell me anyway.” Something in his voice is so impossibly affectionate, it makes Sylvain feel like he’s on the brink of losing his mind.

“You’re right about that,” Sylvain responds. “Actually, I was thinking about the other night.”

Felix’s breath hitches, but he offers no other indication that the statement means anything to him. “If this is going to turn into another story about one of your romantic encounters, you can save your breath,” he warns.

“No,” Sylvain laughs. “Nothing like that. I was just thinking how funny it was that you shoved me into a wall.”

Cicadas hum in the overgrown grass. Even from a few feet away, it’s impossible to miss how Felix tenses at the reminder of the incident. Sylvain walks over to where he stands, then comes to a halt in front of him with his hands on his hips. His nerves begin to spark again, like they had that night. He tries to quiet them, but his skin refuses to stop prickling when it’s in such close proximity to Felix. Blame it on the fervor of imminent battle, on the public displays of affection that had surrounded them down in the tavern—whatever the reason, Sylvain has to admit that he agrees with Felix: he _does_ feel strange tonight.

“I was thinking,” he says slowly, “that if it had been a girl doing that, we _totally_ would have made out.”

Felix flushes, which makes Sylvain’s stomach twist itself into knots.

“You’re incorrigible,” Felix tells him. “Where does it end?”

“Oh, come on. Like you weren’t thinking the same thing. Maybe you’d be less uptight if you’d let that nice lady knight take you out on a date. Ever think about that?”

“Out of the question. I can’t believe you remembered that.” The color in Felix’s cheeks deepens. His jaw is clenched so tightly that it quivers under the pressure.

“Why wouldn’t I? Would it kill you to have some fun?” Sylvain presses. He’s no longer paying much attention to the words coming out of his mouth, or Felix’s. Mostly he’s paying attention to Felix’s mouth. For all his callous exterior, Felix’s features are strikingly delicate. If he _was_ a girl, this would be the moment where Sylvain would lean in for the kiss. But this is Felix. This is _Felix_.

Without thinking, Sylvain reaches out to smooth a strand of hair behind his ear.

There’s a tense silence in which neither of them does anything but breathe. Then Sylvain retreats abruptly, sliding backwards a half-step. He had been a split second away from _actually_ leaning in. Even that stray touch had been too close for comfort. Dread sits heavy in his lungs.

_Why is this happening?_

Felix seems to be asking himself the same thing. He’s staring down at his hands like they hold answers, which prompts Sylvain to wonder what fate he sees written in the lines of his palms. It probably has nothing to do with him. _And yet…_

“Never touch me again,” Felix mutters. “I can’t guarantee you’ll survive the attempt.”

“Hey, you’ve seen me in battle. You know how reckless I can be. And there are worse causes to stake my life on,” Sylvain shoots back before he can think it through.

“Shut up,” Felix tells him. “Just… shut up and leave me alone.” For the first time in as long as Sylvain could remember, he looks as though he might be on the verge of tears.

“Says the one who invited me to dinner,” Sylvain reminds him. “Sounds to me like you don’t know _what_ you want.”

Felix tilts his chin up. When their eyes meet, Sylvain feels the connection run through him like an arrow shot between the gaps in his ribcage.

“No,” Felix sighs. His voice is frayed at the edges. “You’re right. I don’t.”

At some point they start walking back toward the dorms again, and the space between their bodies is this numb and terrible hole. The moon disappears behind another cloud, and it doesn’t come back out again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW warning for this chapter. Enjoy.

By the time they make it up the stairs, Sylvain is ready to collapse. Spending so much time around Felix is exhausting in a way he can’t quite put his finger on. Still, he wouldn’t trade it for anything. How often does Felix offer to spend _more_ time with him? There’s no telling when it might happen again.

For the second time in as many nights, they both hesitate in the hall outside their bedrooms.

“Well,” Sylvain says. “I guess this is goodnight.”

Felix makes some noncommittal sound from deep in his throat. The way he’s staring at the door to his room makse Sylvain wonder if he’s expecting an enemy ambush to be awaiting him once he gets inside. He finds that he can empathize with that. Sometimes he feels the same when he returns to his own room at the end of the day. Especially lately, as he’s still adjusting to what it feels like to fall asleep alone.

“So then, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he continues. Might as well get it over with. He swivels, reaching for the door. His fingers get as far as brushing against the doorknob before he feels something wrap around his opposite wrist, and he is jerked back violently.

“Wait,” Felix murmurs. His eyelids flutter, as though bewildered by his own reflexes. Sylvain studies his face, but what emotions flicker across his features, he can’t name.

“You all right?” he asks. Internally, he curses himself for the question; if _Felix_ is asking him to wait, then he clearly _isn’t_ all right.

“I’m fine,” Felix rushes to assure him. But the lack of circulation in Sylvain’s fingers says otherwise. If Felix continues to squeeze his wrist so tightly, Sylvain fears he’ll lose feeling in his hand for good. And he needs that hand. For multiple reasons.

“I gotta admit, your version of ‘fine’ has always kind of confused me,” Sylvain says, tipping his chin toward their linked arms. “If this is ‘ _fine’_ , I’d hate to see what ‘ _distressed’_ looks like.”

“Better hope you never do,” Felix tells him. He relinquishes his grasp and lets his arm fall to his side, looking no less distraught. In this condition, Sylvain is hesitant to let him spend the night alone. He’s hesitant to suggest an alternative, too, but it seems increasingly like that might be his only option.

He steels himself and says, “Hey. Do you remember when we were kids, and you would have nightmares? Almost every time I came to stay in Fraldarius, you would come running in, crying about your bad dreams, and me and Glenn would drag our blankets into your room, and we would stay up reading stories until we all passed out on your floor.”

Felix stiffens. “Why are you bringing this up?”

“Maybe it’s a long shot, so feel free to tell me no, but… there’s no reason we couldn’t do that again.”

“Maybe it escaped your notice, but I’m not a worthless child anymore, and my brother is dead.”

A wave of sorrow and fatigue crashes into Sylvain, hitting him square in the tender-most part of his chest. “Ah. Right, then. Sorry I brought it up.”

Felix tugs at a loose thread on the end of his sleeve. “I didn’t say no,” he mutters. “If you want to wake up with a sore neck tomorrow from sleeping on the floor, I’m not going to stop you.”

That’s about as close to an enthusiastic confirmation as Felix could ever offer. “Sure,” Sylvain says. “Small price to pay for helping a friend.”

“Don’t misinterpret my intentions. I agreed because I thought you were asking for company.”

Sylvain has to fight the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Goddess forbid you admit you’re lonely too.”

* * *

It’s all Felix can do not to lock the door behind him as he waits for Sylvain to return with his bedding. He curses himself for agreeing to this, then reminds himself that this is for Sylvain’s sake, nothing more. Invoking Glenn had been a low blow, but he can’t fault Sylvain for using such an underhanded tactic to get his way when he might have done the same in his position.

Besides, in a way, he’s relieved at the thought that he won’t have to sleep alone, if only for a night. He supposes it all worked to his advantage, in the end. As long as he has no more dreams like the one he had a few nights ago, he’ll be fine.

Felix is already curled up in bed, so Sylvain shuts the door once he’s deposited his pile of blankets and pillows on the floor. The blue plush rug signifying that this room belongs to a member of the Blue Lions has faded in the five years that the monastery has been abandoned, but it can still act as a buffer from the hard floor below. Even so, Felix feels guilty, like he ought to be the one on the floor while Sylvain takes the bed. But Sylvain _had_ volunteered, impending sore neck and all.

Once Sylvain has settled in, he turns over to glance up at Felix. Felix feels as though he’d just suffered a blow to the stomach. They’ve doused the torches, but the moonlight supplies enough light to illuminate Sylvain’s smooth cheeks and drooping eyelids. If he looks at him for too long, Felix is afraid something inside him might break.

“Goodnight,” Sylvain says through a yawn.

Felix has to flip over to hide the smile that threatens to corrupt his face. “If you snore, I reserve the right to murder you in your sleep,” he replies, knowing full well that no sound will rouse him from the depth of the sleep he is about to succumb to.

* * *

After Miklan died, Sylvain had hated coming back to an empty dorm. The dark had grown fangs and skewed proportions, making him feel like he was dreaming even when he knew he was awake. And on the rare occasions where sleep had taken him, it had offered no reprieve. It had been as though Miklan’s death had unlocked a secret crypt in the pit of his brain, where every memory he had tried to bury rose again to life, as vivid as the day it happened. Felix wants to keep his grief buried in the unreachable depths of his heart—not acknowledged, and certainly not soothed. But Sylvain needs him to know that he would suffer a thousand nights of sleeping on the floor if it means that his pain would decrease by even a fraction.

It’s still dark when Sylvain awakens to the sound of a sharp gasp. Really, his battle to find a comfortable position atop the hard floor means that he had never quite made it all the way to sleep, but he _had_ been halfway to it. He sits up and looks over the edge of the bed to find Felix writhing in pain. Immediately, the haze of near-sleep dissipates, replaced by determination to wake Felix from whatever nightmare he’s having.

“Felix,” he hisses, reaching over to jostle his arm. “Hey.”

Felix does not respond. His eyes shift back and forth rapidly beneath his eyelids, and his parted lips move in the shape of words too soft to understand. He grips the sheets, grits his teeth, continuing to cry out in pain.

Or, wait. Is it—

_Absolutely not._

Sylvain lifts himself onto the bed beside Felix so that he can pin his arms, stop him from tearing into the sheets with his fingernails. He shakes him with as much strength as he dares use without hurting him.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Wake up. You’re having a—you’re dreaming.”

Slowly, Felix returns to consciousness. His eyes flutter open, and he sits up, dazed. He looks at Sylvain as though he doesn’t recognize him. A deep blush darkens his cheeks, and his mouth is slightly agape to account for his shallow breathing.

“Oh,” he says with a frown, once he realizes who he was looking at.

“So much for a good night’s sleep,” Sylvain sighs. He speaks softly so as not to disturb Dimitri, who is likely fast asleep in the adjacent room. “You okay?”

“I…”

Felix won’t meet his gaze. This is nothing out of the ordinary, but Sylvain still wishes he would, if only so he can try to understand what’s going through his head.

“Sounded like an intense dream,” Sylvain informs him.

Felix inches away as best he can in what little space there is between Sylvain and the wall. “That’s… not inaccurate,” he breathes.

Freed from its ponytail, Felix’s dark hair makes a stark contrast against the pale skin of his neck. Sylvain rarely has the opportunity to see him with his hair down. It makes him look somehow vulnerable, as though he might afford Sylvain a precious glimpse of the person he had been prior to Glenn’s death. Before he had learned that suppressing his emotions was an option, and rewrote his entire personality as a love letter to shame.

Sylvain’s control wavers. He reaches out to try and smooth a strand of hair behind Felix’s ear, but this time Felix intercepts, catching him by the wrist.

Regret strikes Sylvain square in the chest. _Curse me for letting impulse guide my actions_ , he thinks. He braces for a sneer, for the sting of harsh words reminding him that offers of comfort are not welcome here.

Instead, what he gets is Felix tugging him closer.

His heart hiccups. It’s been far too long since he’s been this close to anyone, and he does not trust his body to behave. But if this is a request for comfort, who is Sylvain to deny him?

“Do you… want to talk about it?” Sylvain asks. He does what he can to steady his breathing, but his stomach is in knots.

Felix’s jaw twitches. “No need,” he replies. His voice sounds strange, distant, and the expression he wears is one Sylvain has never seen on him before. It unnerves him, pulls the knots in his stomach even tighter because he does not know what it means.

Perhaps Felix still has one foot planted in the realm of nightmares. If so, that would explain the shadow-haunted look in his eyes, though it cannot account for the fact that they are trained on Sylvain’s lips. There is no explaining that. Sylvain, therefore, does his best to ignore it. Best not to give his body any more reasons to misbehave. It has enough already.

“Well, then,” he says, self-conscious of the way his voice betrays his ragged nerves. “I’m glad you’re awake now.”

Felix blinks. “So am I.”

A charged beat passes between them as they stare at each other. Sylvain fights the urge to tear himself away and propel himself off the edge of the bed with the reminder that he is here for Felix’s sake. Felix, meanwhile, seems lost in a momentary trance. No part of their bodies touches, aside from his fingers wrapped around Sylvain’s wrist, but Sylvain can feel the intoxicating heat of him even with the blanket acting as a barrier. He feels like he is holding his breath, although he isn’t.

As Sylvain tries to understand what’s happening, Felix reaches up and sets his palm flat against Sylvain’s chest. Sylvain’s muscles tense, anticipating a shove. But Felix merely keeps his hand there, until it curls into a fist around the collar of his shirt and pulls him down.

Sylvain catches himself before he can collapse on top of him. Their faces are so close that their noses brush against each other. His heart goes haywire, and his skin prickles with what is probably adrenaline.

 _This is bad,_ he thinks. They’re rapidly approaching the point of no return—the point at which Sylvain can no longer stifle the desperate impulse driving his body.

Is it possible that Felix feels the same, and that this is the comfort he was seeking?

As if in response, Felix closes the distance between their lips.

It takes a moment for Sylvain’s mind to catch up to the present. When it does, warm terror floods his limbs. His head spins. His thoughts move in slow-motion.

He pulls back quickly to study Felix’s face. This transition into physical affection feels surprisingly natural, considering it’s something neither of them discussed nor desired beforehand. Although, _affection_ implies an emotional component that is absent here. This is nothing more than an act of pure instinct, to remedy loneliness. Meaning is absent from the motion of their bodies. They are unaffected by the burden of passion.

This is what Sylvain repeats to himself as he kisses Felix’s neck. There can be no passion in the way he presses his lips to the soft flesh there. No passion in the way he lays his palm flat against Felix’s stomach to feel the rhythm of his breath push it up and down, up and down, no longer frightened, now, but something else.

Felix’s stomach tenses at his touch. He inhales a sharp breath that jolts a tremor down Sylvain’s spine. _Desperate_ is not a word he’s ever considered using for Felix, but it is the only one which describes the sounds he’s making now. And he wears desperation better than Sylvain could have dreamed. Had he imagined Felix stoic and mute, too proud to utter _please_ and _yes_ and _it feels good_ , too proud to let himself fall prey to the rhythms of pleasure? Had he imagined Felix _anything?_ If asked, he would deny that Felix sometimes finds a way into his fantasies, but, well. They were meaningless anyway, and pale in comparison.

“Do you want me to?” Sylvain asks, mouthing the words against Felix’s neck. He feels Felix nod in response, still determined not to offer any affirmations beyond what his body betrays or what is necessary for Sylvain to continue. It is difficult to accept that he has permission to touch Felix at all, let alone like this, but he chooses trust over doubt, assured that Felix will not hesitate to express discomfort if any arises.

Under his palm, Felix’s stomach is taut and firm. Sylvain lets his hand linger for a moment just to feel the motion of his breath. Then he slips it below the waistband of Felix’s pants, and there’s that delicious hitch again, a break in the steady rise and fall of Felix’s chest revealing he, too, is only human. Sylvain can’t help but stare at him. Even knowing that Felix would prefer that he look elsewhere, Sylvain can’t help but stare. The moonlight blues and blurs Felix’s features ethereal. When he notices that Sylvain is looking he shies away, not quite embarrassed but something like it.

“You,” Felix murmurs. There’s no hint of a thought to follow; the word is enough. He means it with less affection than his tone conveys, Sylvain knows, but that doesn’t stop him from interpreting it as affectionate until he remembers that it doesn’t have to be. They are friends, engaging in an act devoid of meaning. Sometimes his heart forgets how to tell the difference, but his mind, thankfully, knows better.

He turns his focus to their bodies, where it ought to be anyway. He feels the depth of his own breath, coiling in the pit of his stomach where all the tight warmth of his desire aches for release. Though accustomed to postponing his own pleasure for the sake of others, his needs are usually attended to regardless. However, considering the present company, that doesn’t seem likely tonight. The thought frustrates him into biting down on his lip, using pain as distraction from the prospect of unfulfillment. Oblivious, Felix fidgets.

“Sylvain,” he hisses. His hips buck, and Sylvain reflexively pushes back. Because it’s _Felix,_ he considers cruelty, until he remembers that the situation calls for calm. He’s barely even touched him, and Felix is already in such a state; that’s cruelty enough.

“What?” Sylvain wonders, all innocence. “Was there something you wanted me to do?”

And it’s not fair. He knows it’s not, but he can’t pass up the opportunity to make Felix squirm. But unfair as it is, it’s worth it, too, for the way Felix grinds his teeth and glares murder up at Sylvain. Who, naturally, counters with a knowing smile.

He just wants to hear him say his name again. Like that: through his teeth, half-gasping, like the last breath before drowning.

Felix grabs his wrist and tugs it down, too impatient to indulge Sylvain in his little game of teasing. Since Sylvain won’t move his hand, Felix moves his hips, performing his want in the way he arches his back to wordlessly beg for friction. His expression speaks of a shame that is at odds with the way his body writhes, pleading, _desperate_ for what Sylvain promised he’d deliver.

Low on patience himself, Sylvain wraps his fingers around Felix and begins to casually stroke his length, as if he couldn’t care less whether it gets him off. He’d expected to be repulsed by the thought of touching another man, but it’s not so very different from what he does on his own, aside from the lack of sensation. In response, Felix whines. Like many of the sounds Felix has made tonight, it’s one Sylvain never would have imagined that he’d be capable of making. Now that he’s heard it, he never wants it to stop. Then he tries to trap that thought somewhere it won’t resurface, so that he doesn’t have to think too deeply about what it might mean.

Sylvain quickens his pace just to see what Felix will do. And Felix, caught off-guard by the sudden increase in intensity, lets out a surprised yelp before he can stifle himself with a hand clasped firmly against his mouth. The anxious glance that passes between them says, _Ah, shit, Dimitri…_ but, fuck it; even if the king can somehow hear them through the walls, he’ll probably mistake the moaning for ghosts and claim the dormitory’s haunted. Which it is. But that’s beside the point.

“Still okay?” Sylvain asks, half because he’s genuinely curious and half because he knows Felix would rather he didn’t speak at all.

Felix shudders. “What do _you_ think,” he returns, trying on his typical condescension only to find that it doesn’t quite work the same when he’s struggling to fit the words between strained gasps. Sylvain wants to keep him talking, wants to keep him pretending he can maintain his composure with a hand around him, but he reminds himself once more that neither of them want the intellectual component of intimacy to come into play. This is pure instinct, unburdened by the rules of passion.

So he tells himself as he kisses Felix’s neck. Beneath the skin, a web of blue veins tremble with the force of his pulse. Sylvain kisses him gently until he remembers who it is he’s kissing, and then he starts to use his teeth. With his free hand, Felix reaches up to weave his fingers through Sylvain’s hair and tug him closer. If he wakes up with a chain of bruises strung along his collarbones, he’ll have to acknowledge his share of the blame. The thought of Felix looking in the mirror tomorrow and finding evidence of Sylvain’s lips on his skin makes Sylvain’s heart stammer for reasons he cannot fully articulate. He blocks it out, absorbs himself in the sensation of his tongue tracing damp trails down Felix’s jawline.

There’s a subtle shift in the quality of Felix’s breathing. Sylvain continues to touch him, slow and methodical, until he shivers and goes soft and slack in Sylvain’s hand. With his cheeks flushed and his mouth agape, Felix blinks up at him as if in a daze. He is not smiling, but he has not shoved Sylvain away, which Sylvain knows is the closest he’ll get to admitting he enjoyed himself. He’ll take it. After all, the reason for their tryst was nothing more than soothing. It was meaningless beyond its intended purpose.

 _Meaningless,_ Sylvain reiterates in his mind.

Yet in the dark, his thoughts decay. Exhaustion lowers the barriers between reality and delusion. And he briefly imagines a world, separate from the one they occupy, in which Felix lets this happen again. In which they come to rely on physical comfort in the absence of more constructive methods for ameliorating their loneliness, and they develop a sort of unspoken agreement that they are allowed to indulge in this activity provided they both understand that it is only a tool, a means to an end, and nothing more.

But no. There are no futures here. There are only the shadows, burned back for a moment, now gathering again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to the commenters, i appreciate you so much! i rush edited these chapters because i just had to have them up, so i apologize again for any inconsistencies - i had to do a bunch of last-minute tense changes to fit old writing in with new writing and i just simply cannot stare at this for any longer!
> 
> more to come soon! i have a lot more work to do from this point on (cries), but i'm hoping to have them up sooner rather than later. they're mostly written; i'm missing a lot of transitions which i'll have to haphazardly toss together. ah well cheers!


End file.
